Political Pineapple

Political Pineapple

Green hoses and green grass

Water spitting from cracks in the brass

Bird houses and bird baths.

Pansies in hanging baskets 

Tulips amongst the grass 

Crates of flowers by garden gloves

Sounds of dog collars shaking in the shrubs.

Holes to dig, holes that have been dug 

Seeds to plant seeds to row,

Water dripping from a college cup.

Tastes of lemonade swirls in the sun,

Distant mowers making a hum. 

Pulling the hose and drenching the land I wonder is this really the fruit of a war being won? 

I stand in the shade underneath a tree

One that my father planted just for me.

Water flowing and quenching the soil,

My hose heavy and full drags across the concrete,

I watch as leaves pile up in the cove of the hose as I pull it in around me to moisten more soil. 

Looking around listening to the water rumble inside the hose, I watch the water spritz from the faucet providing coolness to a slippery toad. 

I hear a dog bark and a bee buzzes by, I flip my flip flop as I let them air dry. 

My freedom I believe is this very mundane thing of splashing water on the trees of my private built upon plot of green. 

My final destination my favorite stop,  a greenhouse built for the woman who is mom.

Sitting in the corner on grand display is my pineapple that I have grown with great care each and every day. 

I start the water at the very top and watch with great joy as it slides down each tubular slide like leaf. 

I stare at my growing fruit and see visions of history flowing in the water; the struggles, the fights, the chaos still echo in history's great granddaughter.

All the guns that have been fired all the treaty's that have been made, all the votes that have been cast, all the laws written out for days. All made on the backs of glorious men who gave so much, who were so very brave. 

All those years of war and fights so what did it bring? 

A moment of silence of watering the flowers not worried about rations, not worried about bombs, not worried about bulldozers and burnt olive trees. Not worried about check-points, not worried if I will die for being born the wrong color, the wrong religion, or because the President is an evil guy. 

No one will come knocking on my door telling me to go. No one will turn my water off forcing me by thirst to areas they allow water to flow. No bulldozer will ever plow over my flowers, or will fires flames ever torch my trees. 

My brothers and my sisters will not ever have to flee to other lands that are gracious but not accommodating. They will never have to huddle in tents or one bedroom lofts hoping for any job no matter how much they must lift or pull up.

My pineapple is safe. It has roots. It is growing. It has everything it needs. I have unlimited means to nourish it. Give it shade in the heat and warmth in the cold. If I choose to move its pot to the sun no one will say no.

So I stare at my Pineapple 

as it splashes in water.

Marveling at history and how it sat in place the freedom to grow this political pineapple who has more rights and freedoms than many souls have living on this Earth.