Sunday, November 12, 2017

First Frost Frozen Pink Flowers R.I.P. I Love You Fred Cole

I chase the thought 
lacklusterly walk behind the poemfragment 
I was thinking
I look down for a moment 

flip the pages of my blue memo pad
chores and duties a pragmatic sludge
I look up and the thought is far away
I write the O's in "TO DO" as spirals
spiral of never able to let it rest
the cuteness of discipline

Texts from Mom about her plans for the day
I am uneasy at how similar they are to my own
on Saturdays I water my plants too
my lingering morning cough is hers
three ascending notes chiming mundanely

how she shuffles in her slippers
I can't explain it
resolutely solitary spinster
androgynous shadow shell
looking to me for completion
I don't want to be that

I resent that throughout this year not speaking
our habits have remained so similar
that now we talk competitively about our gardens
crafts and cooking tactics
our need to be solitary
our angst about having to work alone

There still isn't enough room
My brooding hasn't made me a different animal
It just brings me closer to a shade of her

I try to be full of love and patience
I cast straw over the sleeping garlic
pulling the covers over half of my garden bed
throw clover seeds over the other half
I rake them into the dirt

Fred and Toody sing to me
go to my room, lock the door
and plan my escape
run away from myself
I worry that its already too cold for the clover to root
the birdbath is a solid crystal ball full of trapped pink leaves
everything has wilted
thousands of shrugging shoulders

I rake up fig leaves
their deep green smell is comforting
and the slanted sun strong enough
A perfect fig reveals itself beneath the rake
I pick it up and bite into it
pleased to find its center frosted like sorbet

Everything dusty icy pink, pale golden yellow
the middle of the day already tipping into the end
Fred and Toody hovering around
I make the promise to him, another dead friend
that I'll never turn my back on magic
& resourcefulness