In the beginning was the Word.
And then there was a garden
and a tree
and a fruit
that they say was an apple.
But my bet is on a peach.
Cause who could resist
such a luscious fragrant succulent
Not fair dangling
such enticing beauty
even with a warning label.
Do I dare to eat a peach?”
― T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
it is still July but the season has changed
and rabbits have had their way with my garden
raping and pillaging as they went
a castle over run
and I am left a distressed damsel
after the dragon has lost interest
and flown away
leaving only singed bones
of caladiums and daisies
such is a fairy tale from a summer afternoon
when the air has softened
and summers heat has turned down a notch
and the only dragons in the garden
fly on gossamer wings
schooling thru the soon to be autumn
when I sat in the chair at the salon
to get my hair cut,
my mother sat in the chair with me
and looked at me in the mirror
And I smiled at her.
And as I sat in the pedicure chair
with water swirling around my feet,
she was not there
but her toes were
even though she could never bear
anyone touching her feet.
And I told the pedicurist
how all her grandchildren
have her toes-
And I smiled.
The voices whisper just outside
my ability to understand their words
when spirits would come and sit
in her desk chair or on the counter.
She would ask me who they were
and what they were saying
and I would have to tell her
I don’t know.
But we both knew they were there
even though she was
the only one who could see them.
So are they here to visit me?
Hanging out in the kitchen
or dining room
while I go about my day
doing the dishes and paying bills.
I wonder if there will be a bright light
to reveal them
as guides or tormentors or just
passers-by waiting at a station
for the next train.
Take my hand
lets walk the soft path
under the old cedar trees
They are sacred, these mages, these venerable timbers,
hallowed by the desert mothers
and tiny finches dancing in their boughs
and pale angels who sing with them at dawn.
Ancient and holy, they accept your shallow breathing
and extend their grace to you
in emanation, ripe with incense.
Breathe deeply this exhalation, this glory,
as these solstice trees inhale your breath.
An offering, an honor, an acceptance,
a giving and a receiving
until your blood flows
with a resinous scent
purified by the synchronicity of spirit,
a grace of cedars.
my vision dims
first a film of misunderstood conversation
then it blinked out
like a light house flashing
warnings out to sea
I am wasting time
when there is so little left to waste
and there is a rustling in the pantry
where three blind mice live
and those oft told fairy tales
spring to life
but life does not hold many more springs
and it’s summer
and I am blinded by the light
warning me away from the rocks
and dangers on the shore
Dull morning light bereft of warmth
fills in the corners
and blackberry winter.
The blooms, white against cold green leaves,
bramble along the rocky path,
armored with thorns
and protected by poison ivy
just finding its vigor.
Shivering anticipations of hot summer days
purpled with jeweled fruit
left by the chortling robins
and cobblers fresh from the oven.