It's Still Life

for visual verse anthology: March

The Green Room

The Green Room

It’s a kind of winter madness, so I think
of it this way. It’s my own green room
with its old brick wall that cracked
during one of those drought years,

where the grass is noisy and thick with
thin-legged, spotted and winged insects,
and where the ferns unfurl fiddleheads
into swords and stab at the west wind,

and the old red roses climb up and over
the greenhouse, where rainy afternoon tea
in china cups is unexpectedly decadent,
and from the greenhouse I can watch
hummingbirds in throats of foxgloves.

And I told this to a friend who asked if I
miss the garden during winter, and I think
of it this way even when it’s not this way.
And I’ve not seen a hummingbird for years,
I said, as two robins splashed in a puddle.