Joe

In the garden metal creaks, I listen to the rain, and turn somehow to speak, this is not my tune, I say, but my words aren’t new, old bricks are stubbled green, an afternoon shower prevaricates, it knows what I've seen, Paris and sunlit avenues, not just as a keepsake, but places I well knew, dressed in O’Neil’s cotton tee, I pull a smiley face, it reaches to my knees, besides us a Magnolia blooms, this yard’s like a cradle, you can smell the Ocean, it’s a joy to squeeze, a life from many taken, a manner so to speak, we live best this way.