[First published in The Way the Rain Works (Sable Books, 2015) and originally published here on May 1, 2018 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, 2023 by Ralph Earle |
Not at all what the title set up for me. A very touching poem. Thank you for sharing it again— I missed the first time.
ReplyDeleteA couple more scheduled for soon….
ReplyDeleteNice images. A very gentle poem.
ReplyDelete