Work-weary, I settle into wooden rocker
Maples flutter, yellow summer wind.
Retired couple strolls by softly talking.
Crickets audible over car noise.
Mailman in blue shorts drops another book.
Trash cans wait patiently.
A rift of jet smoke splits the sky,
buzzing louder than the neighbor’s mower.
Mark, my friend’s boy, is over there.
He writes the countryside in Iraq is lovely,
but soldiers leave trash by the side of the road...
perfect place to hide a bomb.
She comes by and helps me garden,
The hyacinths we planted are white and blue.
The gladiolas bloomed this week, blood red.