08-06-2013, 10:16 AM
My bare foot, with toenails speckled with flecks of bright orange polish that has been long ago chipped away, rests on a wooden, chestnut stained table with rusty wheels that, at one time, had a job, but is now retired to sit on my porch and hold my faded pastel blue ceramic travel mug filled with cold, discarded coffee that tastes barely of coffee, more of sugar and cream.
The cup and its matching rubber sleeve and cap are positively dull compared to the Tiffany blue clay pitcher displayed proudly in the middle. It stands with its look of oldness, while it still has remnants of the price sticker hidden in the inner rim. The glazed over cracked-painted vessel, with what seems to be a mistletoe pattern and its curved handle are held up by a brown, slightly chipped base.
The upside down clear glass ash tray that is glistening in the sun beside the pitcher, looks out of place, yet understandably there at the same time.
In the garden, there is a tree with no trunk, rather it looks as if someone had taken the branches from an entirely different tree and planted them in the ground, packed tightly together, with seemingly out of place pale orange flowers at its base.
The tall daises spring out of the ground, bright white with what looks like a dull yellow yolk in the middle.
The pine tree nestled in a corner, with its yellow and green leaf like pines reaching out sideways as if to shake your hand stands next to the bush that is so simple yet remarkably unique at the same time. It looks as if it could be a patch of skinny grass blades looked at through a magnifying glass.
The copper birds, oxidized and green with time, stand tall over the bush. One, with its neck reaching to the sky, reminds me of when I would pretend I could ride it, but wasn’t quite tall enough, while the other looks behind himself as if looking at the base of the brown brick chimney. I can’t see their feet, but I know they are firmly held in place by a bed of rocks.
There is an assortment of green and purple plants, none quite matching the others, all around, strategically planted for a neat, organized appearance. I laugh at the salvia, remembering when I told my parents and the gardener that they were planting a hallucinogenic drug.
I see the very tips of various pine trees hiding behind the dark brown wicker love seat across from me with beige cushions and one slightly lighter beige and faded teal pillow leaning on each arm rest.
A discarded matching wicker table with a dirty glass top sits to the side beneath a shelf patiently waiting to be moved out of sight.
The dark brown gutter of the oversized hut-like roof with square, brown shingles holds up a simple square bird house, whose entrance, a single circular hole, is dirty and white with use. At the apex of its copper pyramid-shaped roof, there is a ring holding it suspended like a small floating wooden home.
On the edge of this porch, up against the black metal squared-off bars and railing, sits a single square copper flower pot. It holds a small tree shaped like a lollypop with its oval green leaves forming a sphere at the top of a skinny stick-like base. The tree is sticking out from a bed of flowers, all a different shade of salmon, which seem to be attempting to escape from the pot.
Sprawling beyond everything I see is a vast golf course that is meticulously taken care of. There is not a spot of brown on the expansive green lawn.
The strategically placed trees are hiding a tan and brown maintenance shack next to the small, clear pond.
Runners, walkers, bikers and golfers pass by on the sidewalk as I watch the sun move across the sky and make the shadows grow.
Soon, the sun will go away and take this view with it, until it comes back again tomorrow.
The cup and its matching rubber sleeve and cap are positively dull compared to the Tiffany blue clay pitcher displayed proudly in the middle. It stands with its look of oldness, while it still has remnants of the price sticker hidden in the inner rim. The glazed over cracked-painted vessel, with what seems to be a mistletoe pattern and its curved handle are held up by a brown, slightly chipped base.
The upside down clear glass ash tray that is glistening in the sun beside the pitcher, looks out of place, yet understandably there at the same time.
In the garden, there is a tree with no trunk, rather it looks as if someone had taken the branches from an entirely different tree and planted them in the ground, packed tightly together, with seemingly out of place pale orange flowers at its base.
The tall daises spring out of the ground, bright white with what looks like a dull yellow yolk in the middle.
The pine tree nestled in a corner, with its yellow and green leaf like pines reaching out sideways as if to shake your hand stands next to the bush that is so simple yet remarkably unique at the same time. It looks as if it could be a patch of skinny grass blades looked at through a magnifying glass.
The copper birds, oxidized and green with time, stand tall over the bush. One, with its neck reaching to the sky, reminds me of when I would pretend I could ride it, but wasn’t quite tall enough, while the other looks behind himself as if looking at the base of the brown brick chimney. I can’t see their feet, but I know they are firmly held in place by a bed of rocks.
There is an assortment of green and purple plants, none quite matching the others, all around, strategically planted for a neat, organized appearance. I laugh at the salvia, remembering when I told my parents and the gardener that they were planting a hallucinogenic drug.
I see the very tips of various pine trees hiding behind the dark brown wicker love seat across from me with beige cushions and one slightly lighter beige and faded teal pillow leaning on each arm rest.
A discarded matching wicker table with a dirty glass top sits to the side beneath a shelf patiently waiting to be moved out of sight.
The dark brown gutter of the oversized hut-like roof with square, brown shingles holds up a simple square bird house, whose entrance, a single circular hole, is dirty and white with use. At the apex of its copper pyramid-shaped roof, there is a ring holding it suspended like a small floating wooden home.
On the edge of this porch, up against the black metal squared-off bars and railing, sits a single square copper flower pot. It holds a small tree shaped like a lollypop with its oval green leaves forming a sphere at the top of a skinny stick-like base. The tree is sticking out from a bed of flowers, all a different shade of salmon, which seem to be attempting to escape from the pot.
Sprawling beyond everything I see is a vast golf course that is meticulously taken care of. There is not a spot of brown on the expansive green lawn.
The strategically placed trees are hiding a tan and brown maintenance shack next to the small, clear pond.
Runners, walkers, bikers and golfers pass by on the sidewalk as I watch the sun move across the sky and make the shadows grow.
Soon, the sun will go away and take this view with it, until it comes back again tomorrow.
