OLD BIBEAU, HIS HEART ON HIS SLEEVE
Old Bibeau, his heart on his sleeve, wheels for legs, a drop on his nose, sings to the rabbits that visit the garden, the garden as it once was known. Sings to them from the porch where, in June, the longest days, he stretches his arms out in the sun. In the garden as it once was known, volunteer morning glories climb everything. At least that’s what he thinks he sees, those few blue dots. And if I am imagining it, sings old Bibeau, so what? Isn’t imagining seeing too? The rabbit chews a plantain leaf, loves the weeds, as does old Bibeau. He would sing to the weeds if he thought they needed song. Grow, grow, this world is yours, sings old Bibeau, to rabbits, to vines, to grasses, to the occasional iris that bursts through it all, one purple heart-shaped heart-sized flower. It brings a tear to the cheek of old Bibeau, seeing it all, so many songs to sing.