Plant Talk: Vines Outside My Window The trumpets on the trumpet vines pointing my way, Like sun flowers follow the sun. I stopped chewing my breakfast to listen. I see them on the trellis outside my window Never do I remember those vines speaking so directly to me. I strain to listen, cup my ear. Yes they are talking not to each other but pointed toward me, demanding my focus. I look toward the middle, give attention to one long beautiful flower, gaze down her dark interior where the nectar is stored, The beauty and sweetness of her obvious, why she attracts. I stare, not hearing their words, then focus, listening, “It’s so dry and we are thirsty." Of course, I forgot to water the plants. The Purpose of Poetry This old man grazed thirty head of cattle in a valley just north of the covered bridge on the Mississinewa, where the reservoir stands today. Had a black border collie and a half-breed sheep dog with one eye. The dogs took the cows to pasture each morning and brought them home again at night and herded them into the barn. The old man would slip a wooden bar across both doors. One dog slept on the front porch, one on the back. He was waiting there one evening listening to the animals coming home when a man from the courthouse stopped to tell him how the new reservoir was going to flood all his property. They both knew he was too far up in years to farm anywhere else. He had a daughter who lived in Florida, in a trailer park. He should sell now and go stay with her. The man helped bar the doors before he left. He had only known dirt under his fingernails and trips to town on Saturday mornings since he was a boy. Always he had been around cattle, and trees, and land near the river. Evenings by the barn he could hear the dogs talking to each other as they brought in the herd; and the cows answering them. It was the clearest thing he knew. That night He shot both dogs and then himself. The purpose of poetry is to tell us about life. The Purpose of Poetry was written by Jared Carter It is one of my favorites.