Brenda Howell
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The Morning After
The peonies are hung-over again,
dew-drunk from loitering in the moonlight,
after taunting the crab apples and redbuds
for having bloomed too soon after the snow.
Lashing out at the daylilies for their dysfunctional
shriveling from a single day of romance with sunlight,
and castigating those whores, the crocus, for being teased
into blossom by a few warm February rays, has become a ritual.
The mornings are now beautiful sermons.
On a manger of mulch, the peonies seem
to be sleeping. Through the sip and swallow of my hot coffee
I thought I heard a hiss or whisper.
It may have been the dogwood,
perhaps the hydrangea, saying to the lilac,
“Look at those pink dumb-asses.
That’s what happens when you get a big head.”
dew-drunk from loitering in the moonlight,
after taunting the crab apples and redbuds
for having bloomed too soon after the snow.
Lashing out at the daylilies for their dysfunctional
shriveling from a single day of romance with sunlight,
and castigating those whores, the crocus, for being teased
into blossom by a few warm February rays, has become a ritual.
The mornings are now beautiful sermons.
On a manger of mulch, the peonies seem
to be sleeping. Through the sip and swallow of my hot coffee
I thought I heard a hiss or whisper.
It may have been the dogwood,
perhaps the hydrangea, saying to the lilac,
“Look at those pink dumb-asses.
That’s what happens when you get a big head.”
Steve Meador
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