Saturday, August 4, 2012

Impeded stream

This feels to be a time of waiting and noticing.  In addition to seeing all I have not done (in the backyard and elsewhere), I also see the lone rose and the catbird.  I almost hear the singing.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.
                                                Wendell Berry, in The Real Work

As everyone else seems to do
End of summer things,
Last minute vacations,
I stare at the back yard.
It has gotten little attention from me
In the heat.
The fountain planter
Is filled with weeds.
They grow at the feet
Of the boy and girl.
They hold an umbrella
Between them.
The weeds are almost attractive
In their unplantedness
They grow at the feet
Of the young couple.
The hose lies
Anything but neat
On the cement patio.
One small magenta rose
Hides in the overgrown scraggle
Of what is still
A rose bush.
The drainage ditch beyond the back yard
Barely flows.
Sometimes it masquerades
As a creek
A stream.
It has many disguises.
Still
There is enough water there
For one lone catbird to find it
And delight.
In quiet times
Like today
I almost hear the singing.

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