Playing Fair and Being Kind

I’m so connected to this place. I feel rooted. Not necessarily a positive feeling let me tell you. Fecund, smells of earth and green, pine straw and long grass begging for the lawn mower, rake. My yard looks like a place where an older man with several vital hobbies and interests might dwell. Lumber of various species, dimensions are stacked on saw horses under tarps. The odd shaped caches lend a sinister character to the space behind the house. A red wheel barrow perches upside down to help hold the tarp in place. Tears and rips sadden the whole picture but not for me. I’m getting the last ounce of use out of those covers for boats once used by the moneyed crowd.

The shed that contains the tools for shaping the stacked wood into objets d’art, practical pieces for handy places to store vital more stuff. The shed is waiting for me and Alex to run a new electrical cable to carry two hundred amps and two hundred and forty volts to the breaker panel inside its thin walls. A dead peach tree needs to be removed as well. Winter detritus fills the raised beds. Maybe a few will get cleaned out for planting. I’m not sure anymore. It would be nice to have green beans though. Kale and Swiss chard as well.

I may get to it. Most certainly some days I might. We’ll see. There is one thing I see daily. It’s that birch tree across the road in Claudia’s yard; between me and the cove. I like the look of it. It’s not really pretty but it is still alive and turns out its leaves each spring. Like baby, pale green jewels stuck onto its branches. Here is a poem about that tree. I wrote this a time ago during a day like today. Forty degrees Fahrenheit and drizzly. Things are looking up. Trust me on this. Peace out, g.

DON’T STARE

A sky filled with rain

gentle,

A figure once admired

waits,

Pieces are missing,

still lovely,

But…

Waiting to die.

Don’t stare.

A figure once proudly

posing,

A sky with warm rain

raining,

Two eyes openly

pleading,

Just…

Waiting to die.

Don’t stare.

She defiantly

straightens,

Head thrown back

proudly,

Shoulders aligned and

toned,

Look…

It’s not time to die.

Look but…

Don’t stare.

Promising whispers

Signal renewing,

What remains of her

enchanting,

She goes about her

activity,

Waiting to die.

George M. Goodwin

September 21, 2014