I've come home after wandering in deserts of all those possibilities I've come to a place that makes no sense on paper it is illogical probably reckless even foolish at my great age to move a thousand miles to a cottage and garden in which angels dance with irrepressible joy
The years ending is tangled in bindweed-
its filamental arms reaching from summer into winter.
Bound by tangles
of bittersweet and honeysuckle-
I feel it deep in my chest,
the bitter and the sweet,
such days of bliss and anger,
frustration and harmony.
I wish I could remove the bad
and leave the good
but it is all too tangled-
the vines interlaced in my ribs,
rising up my throat
to be released each time I open my mouth-
its tangled in thought
all too nimble
all too green
all too restricting –
I sharpen my machete.
The disc turns the soft fragrant earth
across the spring fields while
small moon faced calves caper
whisking their tails in triumphant and ridiculous joy.
you dress in Edens green,
drawing us into the garden
from which we all fled-
where moon faced angels
caper at each fence post,
their wings tangled in sweet honeysuckle
and ridiculous joy.
(The amygdala and hippocampus
receive the information
from the olfactory bulb
before routing it to the thalamus,
already conjuring memories
before awareness of the scent
is formed in the conscious mind.)
Four eggs perch in my grandmother’s bowl
among the fragrant tangerines,
ready to take a crack into the citrus-y batter
where the luscious dates await.
The air is scented with oranges
and roasting pecans,
the fragrance from a kitchen
that no longer exists.
I found that thing which had been lost.
Though to be honest,
I hadn’t realized it was lost.
I had not thought of it in the least
I have no idea how long.
But there it was-
in all its glory.
The thing that had been lost
In my hand.
It was now remembered.
A memory attached.
To always be that thing
that had been lost,
In three acrostics
Pale belief for
Hearing the sound
Of angels voices
Pealing good news
Eclipsing time and story
Sleet filled air
tracing patterns across the landscape
Wind whipped names
tagged by ice and snow
the mysteries of cardinals
sparrows and doves
created to be lost and rewritten
by the late winter sun
The scent rises from the damp cool earth,
sweet as my grandmothers perfume.
That smell that still permeates the drawer
of the old vanity
with its foxed mirror.
When I open it,
Our Lady of the Hyacinths,
in her pale lilac cloak suffused with perfume
and held high by fat cheeked cherubs,
like the little chalkware angels
that perched on her vanity top
with chipped wings
and bashful eyes.
I gently hold the heady blossoms
as I rake away the last of autumn’s leaves.
Sweetness lingers in my hands,
hands that are shaped like my grandmothers,
square palms with short fingers,
blessed by Our Lady of the Hyacinths.
I remind myself to pay attention
should the stones choose to shout out
or the mountains bow down.
Just in case a triad of angels
drop by the house for a visit,
I keep the sacrament of hospitality prepared.
My eyes are open
should I need to clothe the naked
or feed the hungry
or maybe have occasion to do justice
or show mercy.
Shaking myself to stay awake,
I have my eyes peeled
for the bridegroom
like the wise virgins.
to keep alert,
ready to hear that whisper
loud as a thunderclap-
*** This a poem written several years ago and posted on the first Sunday of Advent the past years.
As I am preparing for the holidays again, it reminds me to keep prepared in other ways. Things I should be prepared to do each and every day – feed the hungry, clothe the naked, be just, merciful, hospitable.
Should you be so inclined, these are the Biblical references: Luke 19:40, Habakkuk 3:6, Hebrews 13:2, Micah 6:8, Isaiah 58:7, Matthew 25, Psalm 46:10