Bob Ross - Emily Ross

Bob Ross

Here is the old house
and the rotting sycamore
whose sawn limb he pulled down
to make a place to hang a swing.
When it fell, the branch came straight down
on top of him.
His daughter screamed
when the leaves brushed her face.

Three times
he forgot the children at school
and one of them had to haul the other home in a wagon.
The sidewalk was pasted slick with wet leaves
in the freezing dusk.

He planted tomatoes again every year –
watched the sun, whistled,
and tucked the baby plants in,
sometimes next to the shrubs.
They never grew.