Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Thirteen


Hidden Hollow - my herb garden, July 2012



















July's garden is hostile territory
in its' fever pitch of adolescence,
arrogance and overabundance -
boisterous – boasting its' beauty; flaunting
young blossoms in shades of pink and cream,
oblivious to the coming chill of fall,
icy wind of winter waiting
to lock the gates of Eden.

The old woman sinks low
in the Adirondack chair
by the mint beds and peonies,
withered brown petals at her feet,
just a memory of June blossoms,
exquisite before the rains
that never fail to bend their pride -
beat down their beauty.

Again she asks the questions – again –
of the peach poppies, the blue stars of borage,
the mop-heads of purple bee balm
bent over sage and thyme – listening.
She touches the granite stone,
piece of silver schist, pale driftwood
and snail shells - tokens of Maine
for her garden at home.

A sparkle of silver draws her eye.
A flash of glass slippers – an illusion -
just sandals of make believe diamonds:
flip-flops on a young girl,
ear buds in her ears,
like snail shells – listening 
to the boisterous sounds of isolation
in her garden of thirteen.

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