Contemplation on Cat’s-Paw Vines
There are no fairies in my narrow back yard.
Though the neighbor’s dog barks at invisibles,
I prefer to think it is you, seated on a patio chair,
or as a shadow, mist, or falling leaf.
My concrete-block back fence holds up cats-paw vines,
tiny, curved hooks unmatched for grip,
extensive spread of the plant uncanny underground.
No longer a desirable, it chuckles at my attempts to destroy.
Nature’s ability to adapt
throws my thoughts of mortality askew.
Nothing seems to ever finish.
Only morph into something else.
Maybe there are fairies in my back yard.
If I can accept that you are here as shadow,
that mankind will win the environmental war,
and find balance and peace,
then I can admit to fairies
and changes beyond imagination
within this century--
and I intend to watch it all
in one form or another.
Perhaps as a fairy
in the backyard
of the baby next door
when he is a man.
Earthly Cares
I have not worried much about Earth
until lately -
Cute, wet little planet,
pretty, unique,
but more complicated
than as I first imagined it into shape.
I didn’t foresee oceans
would breed so many creatures,
nor consider land occupants
would change so over time,
especially after I put Man there.
I should have checked more often.
Man has been quite inventive
despite that little brain,
has developed items detrimental
to the health of My garden of stars.
I shall do some tending,
but it’s best if Man thinks he’s doing it,
so I’ll plant a seed here and there of possibilities,
let the young explain My needs.
I’ll give them a bit of time,
make a note to check back
in a hundred or so of their years,
about noon tomorrow.
On the Announcement of Finding “More-Inhabitable” Planets
Blue dust rises in fantasy fields
when I think about the “more-inhabitable”
planets which have been found
impossible distances from our reality.
Blue dust, vegetables as large as houses,
animal species undreamt of,
water gold, and something like trees
in purples and pinks, green sky…
…and whatever has evolved instead
of this human species.
Do they till the blue earth,
eat the vegetables, drink the golden?
Have they invented writing,
buildings, social behavior?
I am distraught that I will never know.
These are the questions that make one
wish to live forever.
It is not fame,
love, money…
it is knowledge that man
desires most,
on this small less inhabitable
planet we call Earth,
where dust is a dull brown,
but we love it anyway.
Cleo Griffith lives in the California Central Valley, which is abundant in vegetables, almonds, fruit, poets, artists of all types, and inspiration. She is on the Editorial Board of Song of the San Joaquin and is widely published, most recently in Main Street Rag, Blue Collar Review and Wild Roof.
There are no fairies in my narrow back yard.
Though the neighbor’s dog barks at invisibles,
I prefer to think it is you, seated on a patio chair,
or as a shadow, mist, or falling leaf.
My concrete-block back fence holds up cats-paw vines,
tiny, curved hooks unmatched for grip,
extensive spread of the plant uncanny underground.
No longer a desirable, it chuckles at my attempts to destroy.
Nature’s ability to adapt
throws my thoughts of mortality askew.
Nothing seems to ever finish.
Only morph into something else.
Maybe there are fairies in my back yard.
If I can accept that you are here as shadow,
that mankind will win the environmental war,
and find balance and peace,
then I can admit to fairies
and changes beyond imagination
within this century--
and I intend to watch it all
in one form or another.
Perhaps as a fairy
in the backyard
of the baby next door
when he is a man.
Earthly Cares
I have not worried much about Earth
until lately -
Cute, wet little planet,
pretty, unique,
but more complicated
than as I first imagined it into shape.
I didn’t foresee oceans
would breed so many creatures,
nor consider land occupants
would change so over time,
especially after I put Man there.
I should have checked more often.
Man has been quite inventive
despite that little brain,
has developed items detrimental
to the health of My garden of stars.
I shall do some tending,
but it’s best if Man thinks he’s doing it,
so I’ll plant a seed here and there of possibilities,
let the young explain My needs.
I’ll give them a bit of time,
make a note to check back
in a hundred or so of their years,
about noon tomorrow.
On the Announcement of Finding “More-Inhabitable” Planets
Blue dust rises in fantasy fields
when I think about the “more-inhabitable”
planets which have been found
impossible distances from our reality.
Blue dust, vegetables as large as houses,
animal species undreamt of,
water gold, and something like trees
in purples and pinks, green sky…
…and whatever has evolved instead
of this human species.
Do they till the blue earth,
eat the vegetables, drink the golden?
Have they invented writing,
buildings, social behavior?
I am distraught that I will never know.
These are the questions that make one
wish to live forever.
It is not fame,
love, money…
it is knowledge that man
desires most,
on this small less inhabitable
planet we call Earth,
where dust is a dull brown,
but we love it anyway.
Cleo Griffith lives in the California Central Valley, which is abundant in vegetables, almonds, fruit, poets, artists of all types, and inspiration. She is on the Editorial Board of Song of the San Joaquin and is widely published, most recently in Main Street Rag, Blue Collar Review and Wild Roof.