“It hovers, this hint of perfection …”

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This morning a fried egg appeared in the backyard,

a startling yellow ball floating

on a white round of wide petals.

Officially: Matilija Poppy.

It hovers,

this hint of perfection,

above mostly unadorned foliage.

For the path is covered

by a mat-forming perennial

meant to grow between stones.

The creeping plant has swallowed them whole,

and it feels creepy to walk there

on the soft green smear,

which, along with the weeds,

sparks undisciplined thoughts,

tangled mass.

Weekends pass,

and the curve widens

into a bed of mild despair,

even as edging plans form

around a new pair of shears.

The first cut is easy —

rolling sponginess

away from flagstone.

It takes a while to delineate each step,

to sweep off the dirt

and spray the flat surfaces down;

but a vintage look finally emerges.

Now birds have descended.

Their early morning discussions

become more heated

as new ones arrive

to claim their place in society —

verve set right.


Kari Wergeland’s poetry has appeared in many journals, including The Delmarva Review, New Millennium Writings, and Pembroke Magazine. Her chapbook, Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts, was recently named an Eric Hoffer Book Award Finalist.

Gunver Hasselbalch’s paintings in watercolor and acrylic have been displayed in numerous shows in her native Denmark, where she also works in the theater.