Where form fills this
Pull of potential,
Here, rain falls.
Rain falls on what
Will be because
Rain fell.
Life, shrunken nearly
To nothing, soaks, sprouts,
Stretches, ages.
Old bark ridges,
Cuts of other seasons,
Things in soil and reason
Endure
Between bricks,
Snails fossilized,
Ideas gone dead.
Worms, bees, moles,
Treefrogs clutched
In a broken cup
Don't care what time
It is here and
To a gardener being
A year --or a million--
Arrears is about
Like caught up.
Oh, Geo., this is another one of your poems that has that magic of imagery, nostalgia, and locale that almost makes me cry from its vivid poignancy! Layers of time waves wash over me reading this, personally because at an early age I, too, had a little garden, and then in high school became my father's assistant in ours, and next at my own place for many years in Santa Cruz, and now, finally, in my tiny circular garden in Sonoma. It's the poetic equivalent of seasonal, regional and organic in my Farmers Markets....Thanks.
ReplyDeleteThanks Willie!
ReplyDeletePoem took 7 years to write; it grew,y'see, and took some pruning. And I do remember your father's garden! For those unfamiliar with Arch Street, it is about 50 yards of concrete stairs up a steep slope, connecting the main drag, Magnolia, with a sort of paved switchback called Walnut, if I remember correctly. A challenging terrain for gardening but your dad managed it beautifully. Your labor there is probably why one leg is so much longer than the other. Your excellent circular garden in Sonoma --which I've also seen-- should correct that in no time.
Geo.