in which the chorister and I walk through the garden

we forgot to look for spiders

being carried away by the drama of white loquat flowers

appearing overnight;


i’m preoccupied now

with saving the loquat

from the hackberry so entwined

are their trunks

like buffalos

stuck together in mud;


a blushing pink iceberg

poked its head through ginger

you loved the flower

for its ginger novelty;


you had to run.

the spiders meanwhile

bask in their solitary elegance



Copyrighted by the author

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