Tall and thickly rooted,
an “orchard” amidst a garden.
The hardened immigrant toils,
muddied soil his base,
and his face is ruddy and worn.
He had been removed
from the home he knew trans-
planted between two trees
shading his vegetable patch.
An apple tree reaching,
arms raised in prayer beseeching
for a fruitful yield. Across the way
plums, purple and regal.
Leathery hands gripping a hoe,
a “Hokka” he calls it, chopping
and tilling clods of dried sod.
Plans for tomatoes, potatoes,
beets and cucumbers
and a number of other plants.
Bandanna flailing raised to brow
mopping the flop-sweat
under the noon day sun, baking.
A curse in his mother tongue,
chopping against bark to free
the mud held tightly. Releasing
his place of birth for a new home!
(C) Walter J. Wojtanik
Poetic Asides Prompt #397: Land of ________
Roses smell sweet, and their beauty
is their sworn duty to nature.
In any nomenclature, their stature blooms
filling every room with their fragrant fare.
Shall I call a woman a rose?
By any other name she would be as
sweet and beautiful, a dutiful inspiration
in any nomenclature. A flower amongst thorns.
Well worn on a well-worn sleeve, she leaves
an impression, that says her heart, the blush
of a rose, has chosen you to be her gardener.
And you are blessed to hold her bloom.
Her perfume, like the rose, flows to your nostrils,
filling you with her heavenly scent, for she was
heaven sent. She was meant to be nurtured
and cared for, and what’s more, to be admired
and loved. Above all else, she will grace your life
brightening your days as long as she stays in view.
Just like roses too, a women is most beautiful.
A woman is a rose. What’s in a name?
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017
QKJ #15 – A Plant With Thorns