Bougainvillea spread across the outer walls, green paint peeling off the siding. There was a dwarf apple tree we tried coaxing to fruit, with no success. And then years after, a few small nubs, bitter and green. Then, we could see clear across the roofs of the entire neighborhood. The church steeple was at the other end, two funeral parlors on the street below. This was how we thought all life was circumscribed. A promise of blooming and fruiting, a valley of tin deflecting the rays of the sun. Still, mornings and evenings seemed kinder there than they are here.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
