Thursday, May 15, 2014

The wrong side of the bed

When the pot hit the ground she squirreled
to the side just in time to miss
getting her foot skewered by a shard
of terra cotta pottery, darkly smudged
with tetanus-rich soil, as her father
would have said, head shaking

And the pansies wept, their cheerful faces
mashed in a painful tangle of dirt
perlite and peat, while the sharp
scent of fertilizer pierced
the clear, cool air striped
by the morning sun

Rachel Westfall
May 15, 2014


christopher said...

Feels just like it happened maybe today. Poor pansies. Good moves. The best move - this good poem. "Tetanus rich soil." Great line.

Love you, dear.

Rachel Westfall said...

I have to admit, Christopher, this poem is pure fiction. My pansies are safe from my clumsy hands!

christopher said...

That's a relief. I was aching a tiny bit for ruined flowers.

Walking The Flowers

Pansies are my friends.
I take them for walks along
the grand promenade
on the bluff above
the lower town and the falls
they dammed for power.
The abandoned mill makes
my friends shudder at the edge
of the seventy
foot drop just beyond
the rough concrete barrier
and the rails down there.
Please don't ever drop
us they whisper and I tell
them I never will.

May 15, 2014 8:23 PM

Rachel Westfall said...

I paint disaster and regret, and you paint trust. I love it!

Rob-bear said...

The pansies had gone to pot (so to speak), and she proceeded to shake things up.

Blessings and Bear hugs, Rachel!