Out on the Back Porch
The ashtray contains the smashed gray remnants of far too many extinguished conversations about the day before, and today, and tomorrow.
The oak tree off the railing has probably experienced it all before: the pause mid-sentence while smoke curls away, spent thoughts from small factories called brains. Last month the wind bent and tore a tree branch revealing fresh yellow insides.
There is mint growing from the drawers of a desk recently rescued from non-ownership. The sun is fading its green paint down to a color that is almost natural. It once stored pens, paper clips, and expired coupons. Now it holds life.
Ivy hangs from pots that dangle from rusted hooks like tangled sentences. It nourishes on sun, water and words. It’s more of the listening type, never quite agreeing but growing all the same.
Each morning when I go out to sit under the tree, inhale the minty desk, and murmur some new bit of wit towards the ivy it’s all different out there than the morning before. New twigs recently freed from the tree crack underfoot. I light a cigarette, put my nose close to some coffee, and try to remember if I’ve changed since yesterday.
