Poem: Sunday

Sunday
–Ceci­ly Parks 

So this is Sun­day evening
under the live oak behind the kitchen
where the Rose of Sharon
spills pur­ple tea onto the grass,
the yel­low bells sound yel­low alarms
from tall stalks, and the sun­flow­ers peep
over the fence into the street
where car tires lap at the pavement
and walk­ers and jog­gers and dogs and strollers
pass. Our weeping
per­sim­mon makes a small room
under its branch­es that children
younger than mine could inhabit
for an after­noon. Squir­rels chase
each oth­er up the live oak trunk, scratching
the bark. Crape myr­tle, peach, plum:
our tiny arboretum.
We had anoth­er tree that had room
for two girls to sit in it, but the win­ter freeze
killed it. Gone, too,
the neigh­bor whose name I nev­er learned
who yelled at speed­ing cars in her front yard
wear­ing only a long t‑shirt and underwear
with her age­less legs for all to see,
espe­cial­ly me, from my kitchen, as I wait­ed then,
as I wait now, for my daugh­ters’ tears
to come the way they do every Sun­day evening
because we cut down their climb­ing tree
and tomor­row is a school day, and they don’t care
about the sky drop­ping pink and orange curtains
around the neighbor’s house, end­ing an opera
about a house that held a woman’s life
that some tomor­row will scrape down. 

Cyn is a proud Mommy & Mémé, professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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