Last Saturday in May
This is what it is like on the back
porch on the last Saturday of May
with summer in easy reach, July
beckoning from far beyond and
August almost a distant dream:
The sun is a lazy drifter moving
through a grey smear of clouds
in a bright blue sky and the trees
are green and dark and there is
no green like the deep green of
trees against a blue sky, waking
the eyes to a morning that will be
too soon gone
Yellow paint on balusters and rails,
chipping and peeling, grey floor
littered with empty husks of nuts
discarded by local squirrels
Soft morning light falls on brick-red
pavers and a spider spreads her
gossamer fantasy out from the corner
of a kitchen window while a sudden
flash of light signals the sun's
emergence from behind a thin haze
of cloud
Sparrows, constantly on the wing,
flit from one perch to another,
moving from telephone pole
to laundry line to lawn, pecking
at whatever they can find
first, one,
then two,
now five,
now gone.
Is that a cat I see, that dark and feral
one whose passing is as silent as a
shadow?
I can see her stalking toward a screen
of green foliage where she settles in a
crouch to watch the action.
And I hurry inside to grab pen and
paper and the cat is moving and the
yard is green and suddenly empty
except for a single feather dancing
in a soft breeze and all that’s left is
the poem.


You should always have pen and paper on the porch… but it was nice to visit yours, and perhaps I’ll have to write about mine someday. Nicely done, Paul!
A beautiful essay setting the scene.