Clearing the Garden
In memory of my mother


 

read by paul stevens

There's nothing left of summer but the stakes
that held tomato vines and pole beans clear
of earth, though I have pulled and tossed their bounty
unharvested onto the compost heap.
Just rows of empty soil and weathered poles
remain behind, and faded ties of cloth
which once sustained fecundity.  When those
have been gathered, the garden will be bare.

The pantry shelves still hold a few sealed jars
from last year's crop that shimmer in the light
the swinging bare bulb casts; bell peppers gleam,
string beans in vinegar reflect the light,
tomatoes, sugar peas, and yellow squash
burn with the very last of vanished light.

Arousal

 

read by paul stevens

Your breasts' heat
          opens the crocus, burgeons leaf buds,
          summons swallows home
                    from Mexico.
I, too, would roost
          under your eaves.