Sonnet

I dreamt I was young again and hacking
away at the yucca plant in the front yard. 
I’m supposed to extract it, clear the ivy,
make way for a new landscape with a pond
and two carp named Tom and Viv and a Japanese
maple whose trunk turns scarlet in winter. 
The yucca won’t budge:  its two scaly trunks
form one tree beneath the soil.  Its root ball’s
impossible to split with an axe, or even
dislodge with a chain and a backhoe. 
I shouldn’t speak of this.  They say
dreams are impermissible in poems. But
promise me our memories will root themselves
deep and prove stubborn to dislodge.  

@ Gregory W Randall 2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Gregory W Randall with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.