Two timeworn sentinels in Chicken Gulch
stand pockmarked, weather-beaten, grey and worn,
with bark that years ago returned to mulch
by Mother Nature’s warmth or fickle scorn.
A throng of crimson columbines appears
beneath their broken limbs, a beacon light
that signals summer’s optimistic cheers
in contrast to those guardian’s dismal plight.
Do spirits dwell in places such as this,
surrounded by a host of columbines
whose blossom bonnets radiate pure bliss,
or do they stay in structural confines?
A scarlet moment not to be surpassed
is spent in loafing, pondering green grass.