Weeding

I squat before I kneel, 

finally collapsing to a cross-legged sit,

my hands busy as dandelions and grass

and false clover come out by their roots, 

some more easily than others. 

The pile of unwanted plants grows beside me 

and the clean, black dirt is exposed, 

waiting for new seeds hanging from soft, 

white, floating umbrellas 

to find their way to fertile soil.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

I stop and push a strand of hair off my brow, 

feel the sweat trickle between my breasts 

and hear the buzz of insects 

as they survey my sumptuous flesh 

in search of a tasty meal. 

There is now a smudge where my muddied hand

brushed my forehead, 

fingernails encrusted with embedded dirt 

that will take repeated scrubbings

to come clean. 

I look at the heap of weeds, 

at the spaces between

hydrangeas and bleeding heart

and wonder who is the victor here,

to whom go the spoils.

The Webcam

You gazed upon your lover today,
seeing the remembered face,
the smile, the white teeth
and lips, those lips you
long to kiss, to touch, the eyes
full of love, looking longingly
at you through a looking glass
of unattainability.

Autumn Letter to a Dear Friend

October 14, 2008


My dear Simone:

It is autumn and the fall colours
remind me of you.
I walk through tunnels of foliage,
limbs overhead, fallen leaves underfoot,
and bask in the luminous golds,
glowing coppers and ruby reds.
The world is ablaze with their glory
and I rejoice in its beauty,
taking photographs with my mind’s eye
that I would send you,
if I only could,
so that you might see them, too,
as I do.

I inhale the scents of the season:
decaying leaves and pine needles,
earth and wood and mould.
I long to send you my impressions,
to have you see and smell them,
to hear the honking of geese
as they pass overhead in their ragged vees,
and feel the rush of their wings
as they fly past.

There are so many things I want to show you.
Today on my walk into town past the cemetery
I stopped to marvel at the maples,
how they were ignited by the sunlight
and seemed to burn with neither heat nor flame,
but an inner luminescence;
and I thought of you.

Coming home, I gathered leaves:
mostly yellow, some tinged with orange and red,
one edged in green with a golden heart.
I placed them between pages of my diary
so that later I might mail them to you,
arranged under glass in a picture frame,
or as surprises,
interleaved among the leaves of another book.

This weekend past I drove for hours
from east to west and back,
and every crimson sumac and golden oak
that lined the long highway
was etched in my memory
so I could tell you about it.
The photographs I took
do not do reality justice.
It is the pictures stored behind my eyes
that I wish you to see;
each is tinged with love,
and suffused with longing.

For it is not just the fall colours
I want to show you,
but the tints of my own soul:
the reds and golds and coppers
that peel away from my heart
and flutter to the ground
only to become brittle
and crumble to dust;
the love I long to lavish
and the words I may not say.

I will not mention this to you,
but quietly accept the inevitable,
as do the leaves that burn defiantly
in the face of winter.

Your loving friend,

Edouard