After years of empty chairs,
messy drawers, unmade beds
and not caring about leaky faucets
or good food, he finds himself here,
on her back stoop, with his hands
in his pockets. He smells the sharp brine
to the syncopated measure
of her steps across the kitchen floor.
He’s never known a house
without sadness…only ones
where carpet stains were sins
and the tribe was always at war.
She’s caught sight of him
and comes out to takes his arm
for a tour of her herb garden. The mint
he knows by scent and from the others,
basil, dill, garlic and lemon balm,
she pinches a bit of each for him to taste.
He watches her mouth when she chews
a morsel of ginger.
Tomorrow he means to go
out the door without looking back.
But she says don’t worry,
it’s ok to feel good and he follows her
to the porch where his shirt is
on the line and a hen is
in a nesting box next to a basket
of eggplant. She’s in an apron
of sunflowers bent toward the sun
This poem felt like coming home
I agree. So lovely. I’m right there in the scene. Well done!
Very evocative, Jim.
This is told so well. I love the compressed narrative of this poem
This (possibly) mother-son dynamic is familiar to me. The direct way you tell the story reminds me of Frost’s narrative poems in form and tone. Loved it.
Wow. I love this. Such a vivid portrait of a man and a woman who have lived different lives.
Another prayer for Woman. 🤗 So glad that a guy with your dictionary is witness.
What a sensitive narrative. Such a strong relationship between these two.