The scarecrow thawed & we readied it for the garden.
I wanted to rub the purple botches on the Dahlia’s
soft white petals. A robin oblivious to me stood
on earth as soft as bread pudding & pecked
through blades of emerald grass and pearls of dew
where fresh promises of a meal might be found.⠀
We woke early, didn’t we Free Spirit, having forgotten
to set the hands of time ahead. Rain’s in the forecast
so the Garden Party will move inside. We have to listen
to the drizzle on lilacs & ramble on about the thunder &
lightning until the echo of your umbrella saves us.⠀
An animated Voltaire is standing in the patio on a soapbox
reciting to schoolchildren in their Sunday best about 12-step
recovery programs for June bugs addicted to porch lights.
The hour got late, my dear, & some old constellations faded away
to let new stars enjoy the immortal presence of a midnight oil sky.
Born in a small town many years ago, Clarence Allan Ebert likes to write whatever falls on his head, revise, read, & revise again. Sometimes he sends his stuff into the universe. The passion moves him more than publication.