2006/hose

I hear the hose
pressure hiss,
a slow drip
on the roses.
Double Delight,
with bug-eaten
leaves.
Spring is so short
here,
a quick burst
of blooms:
roses, geraniums,
lobelia.
Overnight the roses
have blight,
everything browns.
Hope perishes
without results.
I did not
get the Adirondack
painted to match
the doors,
sage green.
Nor a shed
put in,
nor find a hauling
man to take
away the things
I cannot lift.
Oak blossoms
clump on the
house, the freshly
painted French
doors are shrouded
in cobwebs and
dirt.
It’s a harsh place,
too much nature.
Turns out there
can be such
a thing,
turns out cultivated
landscapes
have their
advantage.
I thought this
was what I wanted,
the way one
thinks things,
outside them.
In the abstract.
I had no idea
what it really
meant.
That I’d have
to vacuum
the outside
of the house.
Would feel
beaten down
by heat and ants
and dirt.
That I’d never
be able to finish
anything,
or find a place
for anything,
or figure out
how to make
anything work.

6/17/06