Attentions

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Attentions

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
sickly plant.
Down they fall, like eyebrows.

A triangle of robins
has been singing something vital
from the trees. For how long?

The answer is --
For always. 

~ Ruth M.

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