Waving off the Last of Winter

by Russell Bittner





Here lives a tree in league with me
    entombed through long, dark days.
It stands in niche like comfort quiche,
    plum hors-d’oeuvre to my gaze.




My indoor tree takes a catholic view
    and concludes it’s all benign.
If outdoor rifts cause cosmic shifts,
    It can’t be her design.




Across the road, the roofers pound,
    inciting dogs to riot;
with slack-jawed tools like foul-mouthed fools,
    they squander Sunday’s quiet.




Outside my window hangs the head
    of a lady in ceramic.
She looks at me through puckish lids
    and eyes that flirt with panic.