After a pale winter of neglect,
the potted schefflera has been brought out
like an old man in a wheel chair
for some sun on the porch.
I, the negligent caregiver,
lounge in the big padded wicker,
reading about art forgeries.
Is La Bella Principessa
a real Leonardo?
A tractor down the road
stutters: Who cares?
At that, I look up
just as a breeze draws its brush
across my bare arm, and then lifts
two yellowed leaves off the poor
Down they fall, like eyebrows.
A triangle of robins
has been singing something vital
from the trees. For how long?
The answer is --
~ Ruth M.