Not cold, but sunny bright

And bare . . . the trees need leaves.

We each have our own small pot

Of choice; oolong, jasmine, a blueberry blend

Of flowers and spice. Quail eggs, stuffed

And seasoned, size the end of our little

Finger. Not even a bite, but sandwiches

Bigger; two nibbles and gone.

We pour and sniff, taste, listen

To the harpist.

A heron leaves the pond

Named for him. Was his flight

Planned? Is he on salary

For ambience? Part of the blue

Décor? Everywhere

A chosen color, accessory,

Furniture, door. Heavy money.

Not my world. Not even

My foot in the door.

I’ve only wedged it wide

Enough to hear my mother

Say, “High cotton, honey. 

This is high cotton.”

I need a spring meadow

And bluets under an oak tree

So old it sheltered Noah

When he rested the ark.

© by Ruth Moose.
Used with the author’s permission.