The rusted, wrought-iron fence
Stood, battered against
Early spring grass.
Tiny purple pansies
And dandelions
Were having an easy time
Of making a premature appearance.

The ambitious rhododendron bushes
Had been subdued,
The work of a
Gardener’s prune.
Eager blossoms hung, thwarted
By Winter’s curtain call.

I don’t really look
Directly at eyes
During communication.

I find it easier to focus on
Non-human data.

The fence stretched
Along the sidewalk of
Three separate lots,
Evidence of historic abundance
From a previously budding Pennsylvanian town.

A few of the molded ornament tops
Had apparently fallen prey
To Father Time’s merciless hand.

As I waited for the 10:06 bus,
There was a break in the clouds;
A defiant sun
Thrust its rays to the
Snow skiff lawns
And melted pavement.

The clouds answered
In hushed tones
Of fresh flurries
While I tightened
My scarf.

04/25/2012

Author's Note: It's funny how words form a poem from an otherwise totally insignificant morning on the way to work.

Posted on 04/25/2012
Copyright © 2024 Alison McKenzie