I watch the puppy’s snout, poke out
through the patio lattice, and get swatted by a kitten.
Can’t help but laugh. It’s beautifully cloudy, this morning.
Starting at the steps, I begin my walk of the garden and discover
an old friend, collected years ago, half-hidden in the cluster
of salvia and grass. I slide the large, red, irregular
heart-shaped rock into the side pocket of my sun dress.
Feel its comforting weight, and carrying you, world,
along with my pen.

Bug, our newest adopted waif-kitten, white,
with a spiral kink at the end of his tail,
is prowling through our jungle; bug-eyed,
he sees things in his own way. Like me.
The monster lily looks tired, flower stalks, bare;
it leans towards me like a retiring octopus.
The ornamental grass flourishes in its conquests
of underground insinuation of territory. Pale
purple flowers on spears of victory flag its stand.
Here’s another cat. Fluffy, patriarch of the cat clan.
Ha! And there’s Bug, again, coming out of the tall sticky grass
that lines the back of the garden. Where I can’t reach.

Next, my crowned concept. A crookedy-eyed glass sun,
framed in steel, and flowers, spiked into the ground.
A true black-eyed Susan vine, carefully tendered
all about the smiling glass face. And when an orangey
Susan opens her black eye, prepare to be enraptured.

The stately dahlia has a broken side stem, dangling
by a toothpick’s width, amazingly alive, and curved,
reaching for the sky. The small, wild sunflowers
still strive to bloom, though knocked about by cats,
and storms. Pale yellow, sun yellow, and autumn yellow,
already, the ripened seed is gone, finch filched.
The ancient sage looks its age. I had to snap off
some of its old bones this spring, they were becoming
a hazard to cats and their path out of the yard.

A Bug just ran over my foot, slung up on the garden
to stabilize my writing. Now, turn around,
lean your rump on the railroad tie wall, and view this.

Four sunflowers grew tall and proud where once
we had the swimming pool for the kids. The tallest,
standing alone, is tied to a tree branch above.
They were my companions. They are dried, barely alive,
but, they have their own companions, in their old age.
Gourds from past Thanksgivings, child-strewn,
have climbed their forms. Four different gourd types
draping weary sun bodies with lacey edged green,
and the delicate orange stars are jewels of fate.
Beautiful.

So starts the day, world.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 8/14/04