begs me for a walk along paths
through flower patches
where a driftwood bungalow
houses little people hiding.
Large Marge bosses the Mermaid
and the mama hen with three chicks
under her wings from her
throne under the loggia
which is only a simple
garden room covered
with five finger acebia
and hung with sea foam
green windows rescued
from the discard pile.
Sweet peas clamber up
posts, trees, wattled twigs,
and fences. Nearby plants
are shocked to find
themselves wedded to
these bold extroverts
clinging without permission
in a cozy choke hold. If I stay
still maybe I'll become
a sweat pea obelisk and
bumblebees will argue
about who gets to pollinate
my imagination.
