 |
 |
A fine, sensitive poem, Sharon. Thank you for sharing it. Andrew 2009/3/19 sharon brogan <[log in to unmask]> > 2009 18 March > > It rains at bedtime. I release my hair > from my grandmother's turquoise combs. > The cat weaves around my feet. Rain > pings on the furnace pipe, thuds > on the shingled roof. I hear it rush > through the gutter drainpipe. It sounds > so free, so much itself. These combs > were made in Mexico. I can't remember > if my grandmother ever wore them. > Still, they were hers. I see her bent > over the planting beds, pulling weeds, > casting seeds, culling sprouts where > there are too many. The neighbor's cat > weaves around her feet. Corn, carrots, > peas, and beans from this garden > will help me grow. We hide a seedpod > from the Japanese Lantern in the rubber > guard at the foot of the clothesline; > it's still there, strongly orange, months > later. All the rain and snow of the > intervening seasons do not scar it. > My hands, holding these combs, begin > to look like hers. My face, in this mirror, > catches only a slight memory of hers, > and that, not the most beautiful. She > was beautiful. The cat urges me to bed. > Rain keeps falling, washing, all night. > > -- > > sharon brogan > > http://www.sbpoet.com > http://www.sbpoet.net > http://smallpoems.sbpoet.net > -- Andrew http://hispirits.blogspot.com/