Friday, April 28, 2017
Newly planted in fresh, organic soil---
the first rain is approaching.
Are your fragrant leaves
quivering in anticipation, or
in naked fear of the unknown?
Does the thunder rattling your roots
cause them to retract defensively or
shiver and expand at the unexpected thrill?
And what of the lightning flashing
like fireworks at midnight?
Are you confounded by illumination
in the obsidian darkness or are you
reaching skyward in eager anticipation
of the sporadic electrified light?
Do you feel the ecstasy of a tiny blossom
becoming a heavy, luscious, red tomato?
Do you recall the dry, embryonic safety
of the seed, the void from whence you came?
And when all your food is taken, ripped
from your stems---do you mourn the loss
or exalt in the hundreds of seeds
you so generously left behind?
O, garden, mirror of all of life,
how I envy your rich, transitory,
Thursday, April 13, 2017
Woman Writing Letter by Henry O'Hara Clive (1881 - 1960)
Dearest Rose,For the first time I understand why men mortgage their souls for a diamond the size of a skipping stone. I understand why dragonflies mate on the wind, their abdomens a perfect flying heart. I know the thrill of the match as it lights the fire---and the fire’s joy as it consumes all it touches. I even know the ashes’ ache as it smears your fingertips and touches your face as you wipe away your tears.
For the first time I feel.
I am the needle on the Victrola and you, the record. Together, we become music.
Rose, you are the elusive drop of joy wrung from the heart of the Poppy making my brain a dream collage.
My heart becomes heavy. I know this can’t last. I weep as you shake your head smiling and capture my tears in a tiny cobalt blue bottle. You say you will use them to season your stuffed zucchini blossoms and feed them back to me to negate my sorrow.
Rose, you are a love alchemist.
By Marion Lawless: 9/25/2012