The August lilies flower, the butterfly bushes,
the rain-bowed tree hydrangea. The garden’s
my challenge this morning. To see life steadily
and see it whole – who could say that today?
Whose life? A man’s life, a woman’s, an Iraqi’s,
American’s, Italian’s, Somali’s? See with what
lens? In my dream’s, we’ve just moved, I’m
showing the rooms to a man delivering our old
rugs. We are transplanted to a life that’s new and
familiar, old pattern in a changed setting, laden
with baggage, belongings. The dream’s action is
constant as our breathing, sleeping and waking.
The morning’s murky, dark. Autumn in summer.
We are between storms – rain last night, rain
predicted. The porch is quiet, no hummingbirds,
finch. Insect buzz. When I open the door, start
out, coffee in hand, a great blue heron’s flying
through the garden, heading north in the mist.
I’m startled, stunned. A daemon at my threshold,
appearing as I come out to practice my craft.
Anointed, blessed, I could sit here and write
till the cows come home. What cows?
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 2.