I know hate is unreasonable,
a waste of energy and emotion,
especially when directed against
a thing which has no emotion.
Knowing the truth of this, however,
does not prevent the rise of ire and irritation
for I do well and truly despise the river birch
which resides in my front yard.
It is an ugly thing; thin, spindly branches
which droop and hang low,
falling to the lawn more often than
a disillusioned wife drops condescending criticisms.
It exhibits no pride of appearance,
none of the majesty or mystery of its
white barked cousin, its peeling and shedding
more like a quarantined severe eczema test case.
I cuss the thing daily, scowling at the scattered
twigs and branches on the lawn,
a spiteful replenishment of what I picked up
the day before. I really hate that tree.
Why do you run
you fingers through
Because to know pain
than to feel
within the shadow
the master of patience
indifferent to your plight
he offers peace to the sleepless
a welcome choice when her joy no longer
brings you joy, but only lesser misery
It is an ugly time of the year
brown is the prevailing color.
The brown of dead Bermuda on the lawns,
the brown of trees stripped of all
but crisp, brown straggler leaves refusing to fall.
It is the brown of dried mud tracked into every home
and left on every carpet,
the clearly marked pathway of repetitive lives.
The clouds are low, soiling themselves
as they drag through the dirt,
tomorrow the dirt will return to mud
for it will surely rain,
rarely cold enough for the fleeting joy of snow,
just cold rain and mud,
always, there is mud,
and tracks on the carpet.
January brown is the brown of wet wood
and pine straw littering a forest floor,
it is the rusted out carcass of an old car,
it colors the mood and dampens the soul
like a shallow mud puddle
laid across your path.