sunday, may 13

a mother's day lawn and garden report

coming over the hill on 36 where
you catch that first view of boulder,
clouds move over and in the gray and green of
the bowl of the valley, against the mountains
sweeping away to the north and west
and in seconds thick drops hit the glass
turning to heavy rain by the edge of town

windshield wipers all the way up 28th and onto
the road north, low rumbling as i park and lug my
bag into the house, half-deranged from the day's
driving and a dozen of the sadnesses that
middle adulthood scores over and over again
into surfaces like these

the cat and i are watching the water come down
out the screendoor when the thunder picks up
i run outside and yank a tarp off the woodpile
in back to throw across the garden
just as the hail really gets going
the flowers from the apple tree falling fast
in the rain and ice, my shirt soaking

the tarp is probably futile, but i have memories
of more than one vegetable crop shredded by a
spring storm like this one
and i'm not sure what else i can do

which is both a metaphor and not.

tags: topics/lawn-and-garden, topics/poem

p1k3 / 2018 / 5 / 13