CRITICA

One hand gripping the handle of a miniature magnifying glass,
The other holding a plastic cylinder with a mesh lid
Perfectly designed for housing a captured spider
Francie tramps down the steps of the front porch
On her sturdy five-year old legs
Headed for her favorite place,
The small front yard garden.
Noticing the fig tree, with its huge
Shiny paw-shaped leaves, she comments on the finches
Singing and darting around it’s curvy branches,
Seeking a ripe fig to poke their beaks into
Which will of course render the juicy fig
Unfit for human consumption.
Oh boy, she says, disappointedly
As she continues her morning rounds
Of the garden
Turning away from the waist high kale and chard,
She stoops down and brushes away the soil
Where she senses she might find a few small potatoes
Stowaways from some compost
that had been worked into the ground
Three tiny fingerlings she pushes into the back pocket
of her jeans
Smelling the white butterfly winged blossoms
Of the Japanese anemone
And then noticing the bees buzzing and poking around
The red tubes of the abutilon
She turns away, the busy little person yielding
the space to the busy honey bees.