Canna (Poem)

Along Hwy 99

Driving to work in mid winter

On the edge of a rye grass field,

A box of a small homely building

With a sign, "For Rent"

Stood alone

On the edge of a rye grass field.

Desolate it was

With not a hint of life

Or a forsaken flowerpot

On the concrete mote

That surrounded

Its fading gray walls.

No parked car

On the south-side driveway

Or the occasional presence

Of a caretaker,

If only

To dust up the place.

One day I saw,

In the south-west corner

Of that lonesome building

With the sign, "For Rent"

In an inconspicuous area

My sight had missed,

A two-by-two spot

Of what seemed to be

A black mound of soil.

Along came spring

And with a sideway glance

Ghost of burgundy spears appeared

Jutting through that mound.

Each day they grew

Taller and wider

Lush, majestically they

Spread their burgundy broad leaves.

A touch of crimson

on two-foot spikes

Turned into bright red flowers

As large as a loaf of bread.

Proud as sentinel

That plant stood,

A tropical beauty,

A complimentary specimen,

A jewel, in a sea of green.

Late spring it was 

As I drove by one day,

Lazily, listening to music

On that bright spring morning

I glimpsed a silver car

Parked in the driveway

Behind the burgundy plant

Of that homely house.

And along the side of the wall

Leaned a child's red bike

Beneath where

The day before

Stood the sign, "For Rent".