July 19: A poem about herbs and babies

July 19, 2013 § Leave a comment

The last two days J. and I have been making things: he has worked on his doll for O. and has sewed on giant sewing cards. But I figured, that’s not so exciting. It’s all been seen. I quit the blog in two days. Thankfully, I have started writing. Therapeutic poems. I should have one done by my Sunday birthday. In the meantime, here is the first poem written for my daughter, a force of nature, and someone who gives me hope. The image for it came to me this morning as I was lying half awake.

I will crawl to your twelfth floor on my fat stable hands
and plant seeds on your balcony,
in your sallow barren hollow echoing flower box,
with my precise infant fingers.
Mints and sages and thymes and rosemaries and marjorams,
to overrun your neighbor’s balcony,
and your neighbor’s neighbor’s balcony.
And when late summer winds flare up,
I will laugh and clap my hands as new seeds start a revolution,
flying through unsuspecting windows into soups and noses and chairs and fertile soil,
so every flat can smell of purification, smudging, and hearty meals.

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