“Mamaaa! Maaa-maaa! Maaaaa!” his thin, sharp cry carried through the screen door, sieved into mosquito sized pieces and scattered through twelve back yards. Deck doors clunked closed, but I was in my back garden listening to wind chimes, which I swear his sound waves agitated, and I wanted to be outside.
“Darius!” his mother yelled. “Stop whining! Do you hear anyone else behaving like you? Just stop!”
I went inside and closed the door. I could still hear the caterwauling. I wanted to invite them both over to listen to the chimes but I didn’t. Continue reading
We kneel before her beauty,
dear equinox creature –
pressed to the earth,
seeking her scent
beneath peeking petticoats –
we feel glee, regaled.
She believes in eternity not
entropy, hectors the earth
– fertilize me! perpetually.
Yet, despite fealty,
she expires, petal by petal –
evanescent – earthward.
“Here’s your tea, luv.” The down-beat of “luv”, sotto voce, his dead foliage voice, was the catalyst.
Harry was a polyglot. He spoke the language of flowers, communing with them as he trimmed and transplanted. Each plant elicited a unique coo, and a song. Spring was Ode to Joy. Fall was Mozart’s Requiem Mass which he was humming as he placed the foxglove tea bedside.
The authority of reconstituted foxglove blooms revived Lady Smock. Her heart raced and she rose from bed, retrieved her gardening gloves and plunged them into soil damp with expectation.
Harry hummed his seedling song – Hallelujah!