The season turns again, mother. The names of months end
in chilled syllables. For thin-veined plants, it is almost time
to go under, into the ground where the bulbs will winter.
The red-tailed hawk takes wing, mother. But it’s been weeks
since we last saw the yellow-crowned night herons. Perhaps
they’ve begun their pilgrimage to a coast that’s warmer.
There’s a clump of mint that remains in the pot, mother.
And the stand of rosemary is hardy, and will hold its ground.
But the bee balm is fringed lace, and the lavender thins—
In time, all that remains is their feathery scent.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- The season turns again
- We woke and the world was colder,
- I wanted the taste of bitter greens
- Sibilant Ghazal
- Life Skills
- Dear Naga Buddha,
- Notes to/on the plagiarist
- The Empress of Malcolm Square
- 4 Etchings
- In One and the Same Moment
- Wayang Kulit
- Exit Interview (excerpt)
- And ever
- Canción sin fin
- Pavor Nocturnus
- If only the wind now dresses the trees
- Elegy, even after 22 years
- The years teach much that the days never know*
- Thin fog, as in the corners of a tintype—