ODE TO MY QUINCE FOREST

ODE TO MY QUINCE FOREST

Spring is proliferating!
Daffodils have come and gone,
The roses are swelling into life,
Spinach is sweet and about to bolt,
Tomatoes, broccoli, squash …
and weeds. weeds. weeds.

I look out my French door
onto the gardens….
Our Quince Bush has spawned
a forest of newborn baby quinces!!!

Roots DEEP and stubborn,
their rhizome has become an
underground labyrinth
of obstinate forces,
a weedy mafia,
a relentless triathlon course
for these octogenarian muscles.

I’d much rather sit here
and write a poem about Quince roots,
how they interfere and refuse
to go away,
and how they must surely
have some secret purpose
awaiting human knowledge
before they transform the world
with their profound surprise.

I’d much rather avoid the
hot sun,
be a reasonable old man,
remain inside with
my faithful dog Winston, and
air conditioning.

However,
sitting here
basking in naïve hope is not
curtailing that bourgeoning, now
scandalous, Quince Forest.

May 18, 2017, Hal Edwards

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