Greetings from the Sunroom by Ken Tomaro

Marisa Fahmer

Greetings from the Sunroom

In the concert hall 

 

There is a bluebird sitting on the edge of a dead tree branch, preening, nervously looking around, preening, singing. It takes off, tree branch bouncing like a conductor’s baton. The birds need no one to lead them in chorus.

Tumble-dry, low

 

The sounds resting in my auditory canals were many. Everything our world had to offer: birds, rustling leaves, sun-warmed breeze, the hum of the earth itself, interrupted occasionally by the sound of a panting dog wanting a scratch on the head.

The birds of Flatbush

 

The trees don’t care about your legacy, what you’ve accomplished, what if any mark 

you’ve left. The trees don’t care if your only purpose is to exist, to be alive, to breathe 

this life in and out.

Unassuming

 

I am the short, disheveled tree in the thicket, trying to blend in. Not waving in the breeze, not reaching for the sky like the others. Your eye stops in my direction for only a moment. I am,

 

unassuming, unspectacular

© Ken Tomaro

Ken Tomaro

Ken Tomaro is a writer living in Cleveland, Ohio, whose work reflects everyday life with depression. His poetry has appeared in several online and print journals, exploring the common themes we all experience in life. Sometimes blunt, often dark, but always grounded in reality.

Follow Feed the Holy