Peach Tree on Winfield
I am only afraid of what lives in the dark corners
of my shed when I force myself to plan
a time to retrieve the mower. I have growing affection
for the weeds that search their way through
my chain-link fence, in beautiful reaching,
that eat at the edges of my driveway,
that play in the lines of my sidewalk.
I imagine God,
Adam, and Eve would be displeased
with the way that I tend
to neglect. I pick a peach tree
at the garden shop, thinking about this
and about my unborn son. Buckled in the back seat,
dangling vernal limbs out the car window,
it rides home to be tucked in
under sumptuous soil blankets
in view of the kitchen window.
From there I do nothing but watch
letting a little time pass. I feel my neglect
is being rewarded
when juices soak my beard
and fill his pudgy cheeks.
Kyle Hunter's poems have appeared in Main Street Rag, Rockvale Review, So It Goes, Gravel, and elsewhere. When he's not writing or wrangling his five young children, he practices law and dreams about making good use of his BFA in oil painting.