Two Pieces
Mary Anna Scenga Kruch
Craving Bananas But Will Settle for a Peach
On my cereal today, which is Packing Day, we have no bananas, but we do have some overripe,
cubed melon designated for compost or the live trap, which I’ll leave alone since it’s mushy and
also since my husband will allow no raccoon, possum, nor groundhog to burrow below our deck
in an attempt to shelter. And the too-large jeans thrown in the Donate bag have come out and
droop down my ample hips in hopes of tagging along, while my good jeans sit in a pile of clothes
bound for the suitcase, one-third of which can’t fit so will be left on their lonely – but I’ll tell
them it’s just for a week and also that it will be a cold day in hell before they end up in the
Donate bag. The plants, on the other hand, look dubious upon my spritzing of them after they
were watered for the week; the orchids will be fine with two ice cubes each, as they like dry,
desert-like soil. The spider plants are aghast and look askance at the orchids, as the spiders prefer
much more hydration and may even rebel in outrage and web their way all around the sunroom,
where the plants make their home, making it difficult for my husband to cruise through the loopy
mess to the yard to either compost the mushed melon or to bait the innocent beasties. I’ll
remind him that those rodents definitely do not like banana skins and that we should have just
gotten a banana for today’s breakfast. But now that I read this back, it makes absolutely no sense,
but gosh this was fun to write, as I put off packing. When you think about it, I guess my
meandering may have been all about adding to the Donate bag and cleaning out the fridge before
vacation -- so perhaps will, as the Allman Brothers say, Eat a Peach.*
A Bed, a Bouquet, a Crown
Meadow grass and sorrel sprout throughout the vineyard, flatten in waves then spring up as fresh
as the roses that used to punctuate each row of vines. Since the Valley fires last year, there had
been little work --fruit had shriveled on vines, turned to ash, and had long blown away. Mara’s
relatives had moved north to other camps, other harvests, while she remains behind, each day
waiting for her love, who searches for work as she searches for safety and finds it, like the deer,
nestling among the tall, grassy weeds at the foot of a lone, live oak; the sky darkens, highlights
Andromeda, Princess of Ethiopia, and Cassiopeia, the Queen, Mara sends a prayer to the
universe, floats off to sleep as snug as the owls that rest on branches above her. For now, this is
home, although she does not know how many nights she lay dozing beneath the oak, but each
morning fields bloom yellow with wild mustard. She shakes weeds from her hair, walks across
fields of gold, past stands of thistles -- much more than crimson weeds rosy as flushed cheeks.
As she nears the meadow’s edge, her eyes rest upon broadleaf clover, dandelion and nutsedge.
Collectively, these shape rich carpets of wildflowers – more than enough bouquets to raise her
spirits, so Mara pauses, chooses blue cornflowers, purple henbit and lovely pampas grass to
weave crowns – one for her, another for her lover; for this she seeks coarse, blue-green grass,
long and unkempt like beloved hair -- like the meadow grass waving and rustling during the
wait. She turns to walk back, keeps an eye out for bindweed tangles on tree trunks to tie bouquets
and crowns. Approaching her lone, live oak at the edge of the vineyard, she moves toward her
resting place clutching crowns, just as an old truck rumbles by and stops. Pushing aside the tall,
grassy weeds, she waits, wide-eyed, for the dust to clear.
Mary Anna Scenga Kruch is a writer and photographer inspired by the natural world when serious and her family when silly. She published two poetry books; recent work appears in Peninsula Arts Magazine and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. She pens silly pieces when her world closes in.