Winter Kill

Across the street and old man
ferociously attacks the winter kill
on his low-slung juniper.
He steps back to clear the sweat

and smacks his lips in satisfaction.
“Won’t let the new stuff grow,” he says.
His cat bobs her head, agreeing
or just testing the air.

Perhaps she smells the juniper,
the new grass pushing through
the dead mat beneath;
perhaps a mouse is hiding,

desperate for the work to cease.
A breeze stirs the trees,
their branches shaking loose
with a rattle of bones.

juniper_chinensis_monlep

Advertisements

About Jim Stewart

Writer at Butt in Chair
This entry was posted in Poem, Slice of Life and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s