Inch high pomegranates
perky in their individual pots: lettuce, revived, has a shine like slivered
mineral, like banded malachite displayed backlit in a local museum. Labels have
dropped from repurposed tins, they are rust dotted silver, nurturing life. A
sequinned star that fell from a fairy grandchild's wand waves in the tops of
tomato forestation. Under the intoxicating white flowered lime with many
curious orange and peppery eyes squats a nasturtium. Laughing Buddha, missing
his left hand, still is jolly in his resting tub: all the green, the colour
splots, they are magic, treasure, cheer.
Beautiful poem, Lisa. I draw upon memories and feel I am there. But still, somehow I want to see a shower nozzle over Buddha and in his imaginary left hand, a back scrubber.
ReplyDeleteBuddha would love that! Utter genius, Geo. I am putting him under our hose pipe tomorrow with a recycled toothbrush and a dab of soap. Thank you dear sir :-)
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