The poet T S Eliot said
If you want to be a poet
you must write every day.
I have known Mary and Tony Creamer
through my daughter Sarah and her
beloved, Ethan Iverson.
On this warm blowsy day we brunched
on the Creamer's patio, brick with
tiny growing "organismes" strutting
in between.
One thing about The Creamers: they do not
strut, they do not show off, they just "be."
Mine was the white plastic plate
rife with cold roasted chicken, cold salmon, skin on, please
hot broiled potatoes sprinkled with spices. Sarah was kind enough
to refill my platter. Twice.
Their cat was smirking dans le living
having caught a mouse for their lord and lady.
And what wondrous new beverage was this they served?
A hot white tea - white tea? Absurd!
Absurd as the flares on the sun which gave us
this glorious day.
From the potpouorri of desserts, I chose
pillow shaped baguettes for dunking, chocolate chip
cookies, for tonguing, and viewed the rest, a gift
from retired Noreen, as I would a Goya.
Shall we go? asked Tony, in his safari hat.
A few of us linked arms and crossed the street
to the Morris Arboretum.
The spongy green grass held us aloft
as Mary explained that a flood from
a southern hurricane terrified the swans.
Be not afraid, oh
Jupiter's Ledas.
Look, said Mary, how this one
holds her leg above, still afeard.
The Fernery demanded quick hugs from
its inhabitants
The Rose Garden, seemingly untouched
by the deluge, became The Hanging
Gardens of Babylon
We inhaled, we inhaled, we inhaled.
If this is heaven, we are there.
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