I just cut the grass, and
the cat is checking out my work.
She’s critical, but helps out,
grazing contentedly on
sprigs of errant chaff
that I missed in my hurry
to finish. Clouds are gathering
on this cold, Holy Saturday.
Now I tarry in my webbed chair,
to sip a cold bottle of beer,
and wonder how green
the world has grown.
Knock-out roses pop
(their vermillion tips shout
in the more common green of fern and ivy)
and red cherries fill the green cherry-tree.
Soon from shattered shells
new life will rise
as mockingbirds fly
to fill shrill beaks
with cherries.
