The leaves boast every shade of green,
the blossoms wag chromatic tongues.
Some impish dyer dyed them thus,
then hung the petals out to dry.
The ivy, clamped by clinging roots,
that clambers up a red brick wall.
Two pigeons cloaked upon a ledge,
they’ve made this ivied cave their nest.
All rests in all like curling tongues,
like blooms in buds, like bees in blooms
that drink the nectar, take what’s best,
so tipsy they forget to buzz.
As I too bolted shut the gate
to rest inside this blooming place.
The more enclosed, the more I’m free
to sink my roots, to simply be. ❖
About the Author: Richard Schiffman is an environmental reporter, poet and author of two biographies based in New York City. In addition to GreenPrints, his poems have appeared on the BBC and on NPR as well as in the Alaska Quarterly, the New Ohio Review, the Christian Science Monitor, the New York Times, Writer’s Almanac, This American Life in Poetry, Verse Daily and other publications. His first poetry collection “What the Dust Doesn’t Know” was published in 2017 by Salmon Poetry.
