Side Street Grove

Carol Edwards

I take a walk during my lunch, as usual,
turn the wrong way out the building door,
stray to sunlit paths.
The breeze is cold; I’m not a fan of cold.

New road work nudges me to less frequented streets
thinking about plans, conversations, lists.
A tree branch catches my hair,
pulls my attention outside my head. 
I hadn’t noticed the sun thawing my fingers.

I roam across one street, up another,
tip toe over dark spots splattered on the sidewalk
like so many suicidal cherries,
but the leaves are wrong.

I reach up, touch the waxy fruit
and realize:
olives.
We have olive trees lining the lower third of Alameda
in the middle of downtown –
harvest wasted, trampled on concrete.

The sidewalk curves slowly under
a Cottonwood tree strung with big flat leaves
that rustle and sway like shell wind chimes
their tune lost to roaring trucks.

Have a yen for more poetry?

Helpline

Cormorant

Research in Love for My Welfare

Thank You

Rufus

1865

Carol Edwards

+ postsBio

Carol Edwards is a northern California native transplanted to southern Arizona. She lives and works in relative seclusion with her books, plants, and pets (2 dogs, 5 cats, + husband). She grew up reading fantasy and classic literature, climbing trees, and acquiring frequent grass stains. She enjoys a coffee addiction and raising her succulent army. Her work has recently appeared in Trouvaille Review, Open Skies Quarterly, Otherwise Engaged Literary and Art Journal, and Red Penguin Books.

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