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by Mary Brunini McArdle

My house lies on an incline,
Above the other cottages
That make the neighborhood,
Each front an individual façade.

An entrance built of stone
Heralds the suburb by its name.
There were to be boulevards
Lined with flowering fruit trees,
The sign itself embellished
With elaborate shrubbery —
The promise of a rainbow
Nearly all the year.

But Nature found it laughable —
Those best-laid landscape plans.
Some of the tiny roots
And slender saplings
Withered, while some thrived.

In spring the yellow jessamine
And forsythia appeared,
And wild, canary coreopsis.
But the crepe myrtle and azalea
Failed to materialize.

Summer brought forth marigolds
And butter-colored roses.
The silver maple flourished
And turned saffron in the early fall,
And there was an abundance
Of citreous chrysanthemums.

On cloudy days
One does not need the sun.
Fair weather’s far too brilliant
For the eye to bear.
My house lies on an incline
In a subdivision paved with gold.

Copyright © 2006 by Mary Brunini McArdle

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