Chlora’s Wheelbarrow
© 2004 Ginger Henry Geyer
Glazed porcelain
15” x 15” x 29”
Adaptation of Georgia O’Keefe’s Sky Above Clouds, III
Chlora wheeled down through the arch in the fence,
under the thicket of roses, off to feed the chickens.
She steered toward the Lazarus corner of the yard,
where the compost lives and held her nose
like a disciple does. P. U. !
Next time she’d bring her rubber nose clip
from the swimming pool.
She wanted to check out the miraculous vine growing
out of the muck to see if it was Jack’s beanstalk,
a sure way to heaven. But it grew thick and low,
sprawling in and out of banana peels, squished tomatoes
long-gone flowers and egg shells. There was no upward
movement at all, for the vine was heavy-laden
with cantaloupes. They were a bit small and green, but
they would have to do, since no golden eggs
had fallen from the great goose up above. But if the hens
down here had done their job, she’d have a sure
cash-crop to supplement her meager allowance.
Chlora thumped a melon and sniffed it like the
know-it-all lady in the grocery store. That made it ripe,
so she dumped out the chicken feed, picked every melon
and filled her wheelbarrow in an instant.
She dropped one melon and it busted open,
spilling its seed upon the ground.
Was it an abomination? Should it be stoned?
Just in case, she threw a couple of eggs at it, but missed.
Now she was really walking on eggshells,
uncertain about what God really wanted.
One thing for sure: those juicy seeds had
squirted out, eager to make new melons.
If fruits could reproduce out of such garbage, why
did God have such a fertility problem?
The chickens were clucking and strutting her way,
aiming at her ankles. They had a pecking order, just like
those disciples at the Last Supper.
Chlora told them to fly right or she’d report them
to their heavenly father, Colonel Sanders.
Or she’d tell them the sky was falling.
Such a fear would make them so patriotic
they’d never even notice what she was up to.
But the chickens were happily distracted by
by their entitlement to the free pile of spilled feed.
Even Pete the Rooster was in denial, off gobbling up
a swarm of worms where Chlora had stirred-up
the compost. No problem stealing eggs now, so she
dashed into the hen house and grabbed an armful.
It began sprinkling outside.
The wheelbarrow got stuck in the mud.
Chlora slipped, an egg plopped on her shoe.
Greed was simply impractical.
Chlora vowed that when she grew taller, she’d drive a
dump truck with big tires and mud flaps,
hook up its exhaust pipe to air freshener, and spray
Rose of Sharon all over town.
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