The Approach of Spring
The time when the cattails rise
high-reaching like an impossible prayer,
I am sitting on a far away bench
writing a poetic effort and facing
my daily dealings like scrambled eggs.
Nobody wants to mow their lawns at first,
they are issues cropped up in the brain,
confronting the homeowner like the past.
So a red robin flies over –
his viewpoint only squares of grass and lost peoples,
blond locks shining in the birth of rays, deceptively.
The neighbor, she likes to grow vegetables in the warm,
leaving my headaches and my heart on the front porch.
I must insert each in the proper cavity.
Sun widens over in a massive thaw.
All land obeys like a shackled chain gang.
Pull back, pull back, I shall be
the child that sits
when the schoolteacher rings
Drowned forth, drowned forth
bobbing for apples, rumpled water,
I quit, muffled, struggled,
Isolation, the bitter fruit,
always ripe, juices sour, orange pulp,
it was always bothersome.
Amanda Tumminaro lives in Illinois with her family. She enjoys reading, writing and caffeinated drinks. She has been published in Black Book Press, Storm Cellar and Shemom and her work can also be found in a forthcoming issue of The Stray Branch.