Ars Poetica: My Garden Face

THE WOMEN gather under the trees.

They bring gifts, food, and chairs.

They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,

Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.

And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.

Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,

shifting aside their robes to expose

missing limbs and gaping wounds.

The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,

eyes straining, and they chant,

"That is lovely, that is good,"

and the wounds stop weeping,

and they melt into scars,

silvery and light and beautiful.

Then the women lean back and laugh,

and they stretch, sensual and fierce,

like cats in the sun.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Alone in the yard, I have on my garden face,

although I can only imagine what it looks like,

because there are no mirrors among the marigolds.

I tie up a drooping vine, fill my bucket with weeds,

rearrange a stack of bricks tumbled by the squirrel

in her haste to collect her ration of nuts

before the magpies wake up.

My jaw goes slack with heavy breathing.

Creases of concern relax, leaving faint

pencil-lines to mark their places.

I pause and stare straight up at the sky,

heavy with clouds and promise.

Eyes glazed over with birdsong joy,

I surely resemble the village idiot,

delirious with simplicity.

--Agatha