I'm sticky with blackberry juices, which have run down my arms
to mix with the remnants of paint I missed in the washing-up
at the end of my workday. Sweaty. Frizz-headed.
Every morning I brush my way past the spider webs
spun from iron-railing to rhododendron, from climbing rose
to dogwood. They used to make me scream
but now I know that I am the intruder, breaking through
and ripping out their silken nets.
A berry cobbler is in the oven, and I had to get testy
with my son to clean up the dishes, now sitting
for 24 hours. (The dishes, not the son.)
He grumbled, I went upstairs.
He starts a training program in a week and a half
which hopefully will lead to some employment.
It is my greatest sadness that this intelligent, talented
young man has not been able to thrive.
He's seeing yet another doctor, I'm half-heartedly
optimistic. Trying a new angle, drawing on findings
gleaned from the Human Genome Project.
I tell myself to Trust The Process
but sometimes — often! — the process
takes too damn long.
In the meantime, these summer nights, with a clarity
of air that goes on night after night, almost seems
too good to be true. I've never had a vegetable garden
grow so much in such a short time.
(Kale to feed the masses.)
Seems like I'll awaken some morning soon
to a grey drizzle, slosh and splash my way to work.
Each night before sleep, I stand on my upstairs balconey
and check in with the Big Dipper: constant,
spilling what, exactly, from its star-cornered cup?