The Whale, Chapter 2

nanowrimo in verse

Photo by Thom Milkovic on Unsplash

The idea that came to Helga was one
That could be dangerous or could be fun
But first she would survey her rose garden
And the general condition of the yard
On this unusually warm first day
Of the month of her birth in this year
Of fever dreams and election insanities.

Leaving her coffee cup half full,
Helga followed her inner pull
To the back door and out to the lawn.
Sebastian the yard guy had been there
The day before and as usual Helga 
Was both pleased with the overall tidiness
And annoyed by the little signs of shirking.

Sebastian, like most yard guys these days,
Tended to increase the local malaise
By employing a noisy leaf blower rather than
The gold standard of raking.
Which annoyed Helga. You have to choose
Your battles, though, and Helga had 
Resigned herself to let it go.

The lawn stretched out broad and green.
That was good. But in between
The edge of the lawn and the fence,
Where the landscaping terraced down
Towards the irrigation canal, the blower 
Had shunted a shin-deep layer
Of paper-dry leaves and bonelike twigs.

Helga glanced in that direction and thought
A note left on the fence, that sought
To catch Sebastian’s attention, next week,
Might do the trick. And the lock to the gate,
Meant not to be locked but merely put
In place, was once again not put in place.
That, too, would be gently mentioned.

The Virginia Creeper that had swallowed
Much of the tall gate and followed
The path of the sun to try to consume
The entire fence, made it a challenge
To swing it wide and step through,
Down the slope to the roses and grapes
And assorted vegetation along the canal.

Helga managed it, in small steps,
Like doing physical therapy reps,
And soon beheld the wilting splendor
Of her beloved garden, its thorns visible,
With petals littering the muddy ground, 
And the hard angle of autumn light
Throwing life and death into sharp relief.

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