I prefer a modest spot in the background
where the egos are small and the
space between them immense.
Like how the quiet honeysuckle vine
exists up against the fence,
behind the garrulous lupin.
Let me tell you this:
Once, while pretending to be a potted
palm in the dentist's office,
someone who someone else alleged
was the blue sky passed behind me
and for a moment I stood at the fore,
splaying fronds in ridiculous accomplishment
while the blue sky sank back and breathed.
It was all very awkward, though the sky
look relieved to be playing its part.
There are things that are meant to become
backdrops for other things. Yes.
Like the startling honeysuckle berry,
red against drifts of monochrome snow.
Snow, whose space and breath is immense.
If you've any comments on this poem, Lori
Kean would be pleased to hear from you.