Striata Flamma

 

 

Flames of corrugated leaves flaunt

in our friend’s aluminum planter

outside the oldest cinema

in New Hampshire. We can’t name

this plant, but it looks expensive

and arrogant, striking a pose

against which crimson flowers

slash the humid summer glare.

 

You wouldn’t want such power

unfolding in our own back yard

but like to see it downtown

abutting a parking lot crammed

with autos we couldn’t afford.

This floral critique reminds us

that almost every passing moment

pollinates the moments to come.

 

These big leaves will linger after

the first and most tentative frosts,

but must uproot and move along

before winter disgraces them.

Storms due on Thursday may punish

with hail but won’t humble them.

Moviegoers may snuff a few

cigarettes in the planter, but slobs

 

lack the aesthetic counterpoint

to effect the enabling emotion

lurking in larger cosmic views.

You pluck a butt from the soil

and grind it into the asphalt.

Our friend arrives with her dog,

who approves of us by wagging

and rolling to offer his belly.

 

While I’m busy playing with the dog

our friend murmurs a Latin name

that I hear as striata flamma

Doesn’t matter. You and she discuss

the subtle drama of gardening

while I consider rolling around

the parking lot with the dog,

baring my brazen lack of roots.

Affixed in Stone

 

 

A mushroom sprouts from granite.

Its yellow-capped indifference

elides the universal angst

 

of crop failure heatstroke, and flood.

Persistence pays off. The heat

this morning pools like oil slicks.

 

My neighbor’s half-constructed barn

stands like the skeleton in armor.

The contractors take whole weeks off

 

because hydrating the work crew

in this grim weather’s impossible.

While you weed luxurious weeds

 

from our overflowing garden

I stalk around the neighborhood,

greeting favorite dogs and noting

 

the storm damage remaining

from a winter of heavy effects.

The mushroom is toxic, of course,

 

with the poise of a precocious child.

You wonder why despite the rain

we’ve so few mushrooms in our yard.

 

Yet this perfect specimen dares

to weave its cilium through rock

rather than spooring itself on soft

 

amiable forest floor where

leaf-mold prevails. The barn,

if it isn’t struck by lightning,

 

will be finished by autumn when

a summer of debts comes due.

I should go home and help you weed,

 

but I get dizzy kneeling in sun.

The asphalt road slides underfoot

as I walk as firmly as I dare, 

 

leaving the mushroom gloating

over its finely wrought construction,

which will last only three or four days.