The Artist's Garden at Eragny, by Camille Pissarro

Her Last Garden

My uncle told me turn the soil over
after that we'll lay a sheet over it
everything under it will die, and
we can start again.

I listened to him – he knows gardens
he and my aunt could make an Eden
out of an overgrown, dying hellscape
I know. I saw them.

The spade in my hand jittered on concrete
a hardness in the weed-infested turf
someone else did this, hurt this garden
not him, not me.

Inside my aunt saw out of one eye
maybe saw me, black mass burrowing
while she looked at her last garden in Spring
I dug hard for her.

This was one thing I could do for her
my uncle had other things to do
they gave him a chair, and straps, and pills
he dug with them.

But every garden is a dying thing
the rot and the death is near to the core
dig it out if you can, but know
it will come back again.

January 7, 2025




Further considerations

[poetry]

Amidah

By Avah Dodson

Last night you found Jesus in the dregs of the red curry

[poetry]

Lowcountry Blues and Judas Kiss

By William R. Stoddart

If I could feel sorrow // for a thing entire of itself, // it would be St. Helena Island.

[poetry]

Cache

By Damon Pham

There’s a kind of meant to be // wearing in // I’m newly knowing of

[poetry]

The Next Note

By Tony Brinkley

Improvisations - little more than // preludes as inclined by other options // and expression as to what will happen