[First published in The Way the Rain Works (Sable Books, 2015) and republished here by permission of the author.]
Pale green, pear-shaped
half-gallon wine bottle
layered with different-
colored seeds—millet,
lentils, chick-peas—
stopper with a socket,
lampshade antique
botanical paintings,
stood by the bed in
our brick fixer-upper
on the cork-covered
night-stand I built.
Lately it turned up
on the shelf in the shed
at woods’ edge. In search
of my shovel, I discovered
how the layers settled
in the jagged time
since I abandoned it
here. Hers. Not mine.
To earth and wind
I returned them, seeds
unsprouted, thin scent
of wine gone broken.
| Copyright © 2018 by Ralph Earle |
Ralph, the reappearance of that seed-layered wine bottle, pages later in your book, determined my publishing this poem next, after “Every Field of Paradise” last week. I mention this in the hope that readers will read both poems, and eagerly await the third, next week.
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