In recognition of Leap Day, a four-year-old essay

            February 29, 2016, Leap Day, 9:39 a.m.

              I do not leap out of bed today, even though it’s been twelve hours since I hoisted—by sitting, then pushing myself up into a three-mattress (thanks to Daughter for an extra one) bed. With two sheets of yellowing foam between the top mattress and the mattress pad/cover, it’s even a higher climb/ shove/ push. But no matter, I get in bed and sleep well.

            By 10 a.m., it’s already past 50 degrees—warm enough to continue painting the old breakfast room paneling if I’m so of a mind. But I’m not. I’d rather be outside on this spring-like day. 

With coffee, cell phone, LG tablet, journal, pen and newspaper, I betake myself to the side sitting area that faces east. I must have chosen this spot instead of the usual porch swing, either because the neighbor’s dog was yipping or because the subdivision construction noise was too brutal. 

Picture it: A white molded plastic chair, Mom’s old yellow stepstool for my feet, and a side table—a metal stool-with-handles meant for an aged or disabled person to sit while showering––for a coffee mug and newspaper holder.

Behind me within touching distance is the abelia bush I planted ten years ago to replace the deep concrete-barrow Mom had planted flowers in. Eventually, the wheelbarrow had rusted further and listed till it was an eyesore. I hid it in the very back corner (southwest) under the canopy of honeysuckle, privet and the poor, poor bent-by-vines crape myrtle. An iron monger eventually took it off to the salvage yard along with other derelict pieces around the place.

Amid the abelia, japonica that somehow grew within that bee-loving plant bloomed, but those early blossoms will be gone by the time the abelia’s white trumpet-shaped flowers appear. At the foot of the bush, a clump of oxalis blooms pink and the strappy foliage of surprise lilies emerge. Those bulbs, originally from former neighbor and landlady Sally Sarah Dixon, formerly of Arkadelphia but now of Donaldson, must have been in the barrow bed and were buried in the dirt I dumped out.

Henbit carpets the early spring-like weather, while dead sprigs of Bermuda grass sprinkle the green with tan.

Above, yellow maple branches continue to swell in the balmy winter weather. They’ve seen only one snow this year, and though we know there’s likely more winter ahead, flora does what it’s programmed to do: if it’s warm and sunny, begin growing.

Here’s a poem:

 I look around this extra day and see

 the brown and withered stems and blooms of last

year’s mums. As if to nudge them from their space, 

the iris—nursery stock—demand their place

like siblings: “Mother, make him move—he’s in

my way!” A clump of daffodils shoots up,

the tulips, lilies—also nursery stock—

demand some room. New green of mums slips in

as does henbit. . . . “

Happy Leap Day, 2020.

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA