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
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?
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.