The Critical Mom Posts a Poem #1

It's the cruelest month: the tree surgeons came with their crane to remove a very old and beautiful ivy-covered conifer. Between the ivy and some romantic lichen gracing its bark, appropriate backdrop for Hansel and Gretel heading home after dispatching the witch, the poor tree was leaning forward--oh, very far forward, even farther since the last storm. Since I didn't want the thing collapsing on the house, where it might have gone through the roof, my daughter's room and the fish tank, it had to go. It's also the cruelest month because I've signed up, as I do every year, for the poetry challenge--one a day, all month long. I'm posting one of them, below: 

The Four Watering Cans of my Apocalypse

There are, really, four around the house

But they don’t come anywhere near the plants

Whose dirt stays dry as my eyes.

I water the plants when I’m crying.

Usually I’m yelling.

When I’m really hoarse,

Too tired to scream,

I get more honest, grab the handle,

Fill the can, pour some little something

Into those poor plants,

While a little something pours from my eyes.

You’re dry as dust, ashes,

Under the pink and purple pansies

In your Bavarian grave

I needed all four cans.

Slashed the dead leaves

Went for the weeds, wild beasts

Provided the water

But they’re still plagued by the woman

Who would rather cry than water them.