Andrew Frisardi

It's a bush
          beside a barricade
That keeps kids
          from kicking their ball
Into the startled street
          of streaming cars.
It's a heady green
          hidden in dusk-hue,
Its sheen shaded
          like a pale shell,
The lining of which
          is liminal pearl.
The gas meter
          measures our methane
consumption in units
          of use, yes
But what's cooked wallows
          (even in winter)
In a sprig my fingers
          spring and splinter
When Daphne is working
          that day's dinner
Into broth. The branch
          transforms what it brushes.
Like a post-flood dove
          who proffers peace,
Tweezing a twig
          between my beaky
Thumb and finger,
          I fritter a fragrance
Like sea-dew
          of a distant deluge.