A Late Summer Obituary For Myself
First published in HARD GROUND III - writing the rockies.
Pronghorn Press 2002
I sit outside.
The joy of cool morning air breaks the subjugation of last week’s heat wave.
Everything is still.
No birds sing.
The ‘swuff’ of windsock tendrils reveals a light breeze moving across the hill, and a solitary note from the wind chime hanging in the cottonwood heralds the stirring wind.
Lavender colored spikes of Russian Sage begin to sway, as they reach skyward from the dry powdery soil. Petunias have lost their color, grow stunted and acid yellow from too much watering. The Cedar trees drop early brown needles in my hair as I water the plants
in the flowerbed beneath them, then fall out as I sit at the computer keyboard later in the day.
The cat performs her early morning ritual, sniffs at all the required stations for nocturnal intruders, then marks them carefully again with her chin to make sure they know this is her territory.
The best survivors of the summer drought are the old bleached cow skulls that lean against the shed. Dragged in one winter from the hills, they’ve reached the status quo of death and idly watch the change of seasons without blinking a vapid eye.
It would be nice to think that one day, someone could value my skull enough to lean it against the shed so I can watch all the things I love in the garden. Maybe they’d talk to me like Hamlet did to Horatio, “Alas, poor Chris………… I knew her, Horatio”
Then I could watch some other poor frustrated gardener deal with wilting flowers, parched soil, unrelenting sun, and lack of rain. Maybe their cat will use me as her marker against the invading foe.
A gardener’s small reward for toil expended in this life.
I sit outside.
The joy of cool morning air breaks the subjugation of last week’s heat wave.
Everything is still.
No birds sing.
The ‘swuff’ of windsock tendrils reveals a light breeze moving across the hill, and a solitary note from the wind chime hanging in the cottonwood heralds the stirring wind.
Lavender colored spikes of Russian Sage begin to sway, as they reach skyward from the dry powdery soil. Petunias have lost their color, grow stunted and acid yellow from too much watering. The Cedar trees drop early brown needles in my hair as I water the plants
in the flowerbed beneath them, then fall out as I sit at the computer keyboard later in the day.
The cat performs her early morning ritual, sniffs at all the required stations for nocturnal intruders, then marks them carefully again with her chin to make sure they know this is her territory.
The best survivors of the summer drought are the old bleached cow skulls that lean against the shed. Dragged in one winter from the hills, they’ve reached the status quo of death and idly watch the change of seasons without blinking a vapid eye.
It would be nice to think that one day, someone could value my skull enough to lean it against the shed so I can watch all the things I love in the garden. Maybe they’d talk to me like Hamlet did to Horatio, “Alas, poor Chris………… I knew her, Horatio”
Then I could watch some other poor frustrated gardener deal with wilting flowers, parched soil, unrelenting sun, and lack of rain. Maybe their cat will use me as her marker against the invading foe.
A gardener’s small reward for toil expended in this life.
Very poetic Chris. And nicely done. I sense a haiku somewhere in there, perhaps abut the skulls.
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