not a morning person
she’s content to hide in leafy shadows
wildly overgrown purple and green vines
surround and ensnare her
beneath a canopy of pink antique tea roses

she stands inside a maple platform
designed and handcrafted with care
three asymmetrically positioned 2 by 4 risers raise her
about a foot off the ground
two golden plaster cherubs hover above her on either side
fine grayish wood grain, like carpenter’s fingerprints
peek out through faded cerulean backboards
a painted backdrop made translucent by exposure
fresh cut miniature roses in miniature vases
brighten the stage like foot lights
behind the platform, at the back of the cave
clumps of ferns intermittently reveal
mud swirls splashed on a mint colored wall
up front, a row of marigolds and strawberry plants
embank a retaining wall border
of cabana-like sculpted brick
glistening white quartz stream before her
like a river of rocks at her feet
completing the grotto

she comes alive as the afternoon sun
brings out the color in her cheeks
she steps out from the shadows
and stretches her arms out close by her sides
palms facing outward
fingers pointing down
as if something were emanating from her hands
while she blesses us with peaceful contemplation

I used to live downwind of the slaughterhouse,
the one below the high bluff where the state pen towers,
commanding the best view of the marsh lands
and the stink ponds making lime outta ****
for the crops not meant for human consumption;
by the dry grass parks with the broken backboards
and the netless hoops that never slow a ball down.

I used to live downwind of the rendering plant
where the bubbling lard becomes aerosol
and the air reeks of freezerburn bacon and feces,
below the high bluff where the trustees cut grass
in the clean air not meant for the locals
mixing with the immigrants and loser folk
who have knots in their shoelaces that
press against bone when chasing a loose ball.

This town never grew up. Doesn't need to.
There's plenty of ground for the taking.
Plenty of farmers selling out to the downtown club
who cobble the streets in past time fashion,
netting big gains from the professional set
lining the smooth roads annexed to the east.

I used to live downwind of the closing in stink
of renewal, where the cheap rentals and struggle
stores with the marked-up Walmart brands
lining the shelves - expired but still edible -
bide their short time compressed and diced
up like leftovers for dogs.

But this is America. I don't live there anymore.
I got myself a cush gig with a padded ladder
to the top. Did everything I needed to do
for that sure climb out into a cleaner air,
only to find myself bruise-faced and reeling
when the profits didn't match the dream
and the ladders were sold for scrap.

across the street they have

removed all the rims from the

fiberglass backboards to dissuade

basketball.

the court looks like a minimalist

exhibit, a perfectly ordered space

of rubber band tension.

across the street to the left, the church

doors are plastered with Covid 19 literature.

there's a makeshift crucifix of branches

fixed to the railing on the frontsteps, swaddled

in a purple robe, and spindly greenery.

there's an inebriated man beating the tree in front

of the church screaming: I'll ******* **** you!!!

he's beating the tree with such force a smokey dust

flies off the large granite stone, every pound laced

by hateful invective spreads with theatrical clarity.

not long after a woman knelt on the steps and prayed.

it was Sunday, today is Monday--almost precedent

setting at the mere mention.

And it came to pass
in a foggy clime by the North Coast sea
far from city lights
a man became a tree.

And the seeds of life fell on good ground
and in a thoughtful way took hold
and in this sea salt air
breathed a clearer vision.

This would be no beach blanket vision
or pina colada trade wind tanning oil dream
It would be a dream of driftwood and broken shells
that once had life, where sand pipers and gulls
feed and peck away at what the tide brings in

Nightlife and nightclubs, parking spaces were memories
gaining rust on backboards and rims that sent missed shots
rebounding off into some other court and game

His daily devotion would be the ground he was planted in
and the filtered sun beaming passages of hope and inspiration

It was the simple dog walk routines of life
and pleasures found in a backyard with ball and stick
that caused his heart to bounce

Guided by the filtered sun his path was green and light
until he found himself tall and stout
as well as any of the fine trees around him

Cedar cowboys, Redwood indians, Pine tree pilgrims and pioneers,
transplants and strays in need of space and time
and unfettered vision

All because the Lord sought us out and grafted us in like new sprigs
that take hold and prosper like the blue figs of summer
and the sweet sugar pines with ends better than their beginnings

It didn't matter fog or sun all the same to him he strengthened

And after many days the bread cast upon the waters returned
in a dream where where you planted your heart
was what that mattered .

©  charlie brannick  2016