What I Can Offer You
by S. Thomas Summers
Dark as chocolate, the mulch
I’ve spread between the house
and a rock border, the fallen
forsythia petals that spice
the grass near the driveway’s edge -
golden even as they die.
Like a beggar, I scavenge for rocks
in a maple’s shade, where ticks
congregate in tufts of grass,
extol the joys of blood and sugar
as I lay stones in a wheelbarrow -
a cluster of sleeping turtles.
There are mornings when I look
from the kitchen window, wonder
if the stones have found their
legs, fled to new silt and sun;
but they’re content to sink
into earth just as I sink into the depths
of a coffee mug and a couch cushion.
The fair petals that drift beneath
your car are easily swept away.
