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Friday, November 13, 2015

Day 13 - November PAD - Memory (in the garden)




the garden
in this garden of blossoms crowded
in profusion–grandmother’s velvet
carpet dance – an infant impossibly
soft suckling madly at my breast as
I sit in the glow of sunset and watch
the swallows gently swoop in a post-
card tropical sky – a father flings his
raven hair from his eye squinting at
a smear of cobalt on his canvas and
turns to wink – the last nuzzle from
a grand beast her eye light dimming
disappeared – a tiny boy salutes his
father’s passing coffin – a first kiss
different from all others –a mother's
long legs curled on couch watching
the news explode- passing chocolates
in the silent seriousness- seeing actions'
approach -her foot touches mine- bare
foot on grand-father’s black shine-shoes
hanging on this father-of-only-boy’s
belt as he turns me gently as though
I too am made of the same crystal
shining on all the lemon oiled tables –
family tables – loaded and empty –
laughter and food passed from hand
to hand – faces melting one generation
to another –reconfiguring regenerating
pushed blossoms in the garden-under
each another – diving into aquamarine
sea sun strong on shoulders taut skin
breaking surface with a smiling gasp–
blue skied towers tumble crumbling
into smoke steaming in suddenly sur-
real streets –sea swarming from shore
sweeping all as tinder in her path –two
saplings supported with sticks in earth-
two thick gnarled trunks – tiny chestnut
blossoms float over two nuns walking
through a sunlit arch of dappling trees –
hands folded in crisp habits – ebon on
pure white heads bent to each other –
a cantor swirls a silver threaded tallis
mystic as a magician’s cape and sparkling
sings under the painted ceiling of celestial
sites – sighs- sweet – tiny ball of coal fluff
at the door – kindergarten ordered into
three Stop-Look-Listen chimes in a new
world – falling into thousands of storied
tears, fears, fortitude, learning, love, loss,
laughing out loud on a train in a tunnel lost
in pages, my name on a spine – back in a brace –
dancing in the sand – on hardwood floors snow
falling outside -blossoms bursting in pushed profusion –
only one wispy worrisome almost invisible trace of cloud
on a distant horizon of the gathering someday –
when all will wither – dry as autumn leaves crackle
between page –and this survivorship of self will fly
from the folds – ancient flowers turned powder shall
lift and blow away – in an inevitable gust of innocent
indifferent wind – floating over some other’s garden
sparkling, feeding perhaps a bud or two in another’s
garden crowded with blossoms pushing profusion –



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