Post by christina61 on Oct 16, 2008 17:25:23 GMT 2
Here's Audre Lorde in a poem describing being in a garden she shares with her partner. I hope journal responses examine how we feel to "rise from war" in our own lives and gardens. There are similar themes between Lorde's poem and Sarton's excerpt in an earlier thread. Rich loam for our words today. Write, then post please. Share your visions for future gardens, both literal and figurative. Christina
Walking Our Boundaries
This first bright day has broken
the back of winter.
We rise from war
to walk across the earth
around our house
both stunned that sun can shine so brightly
after all our pain
Cautiously we inspect our joint holding.
A part of last year's garden still stands
bracken
one tough missed okra pod clings to the vine
a parody of truth cold-hard and swollen
underfoot
one rotting shingle
is becoming loam.
I take your hand beside the compost heap
glad to be alive and still
with you
we talk of ordinary articles
with relief
while we peer upward
each half-afraid
there will be no tight buds started
on our ancient apple tree
so badly damaged by last winter's storm
knowing
it does not pay to cherish symbols
when the substance
lies so close at hand
waiting to be held
your hand
falls off the apple bark
like casual fire
along my back
my shoulders are dead leaves
waiting to be burned
to life.
The sun is watery warm
our voices
seem too loud for this small yard
too tentative for women
so in love
the siding has come loose in spots
our footsteps hold this place
together
as our place
our joint decisions make the possible
whole.
I do not know when
whe shall laugh again
but next week
we will spade up another plot
for this spring's seeding.
The Black Unicorn, Poems, Audre Lorde, W.W. Norton, 1978
Walking Our Boundaries
This first bright day has broken
the back of winter.
We rise from war
to walk across the earth
around our house
both stunned that sun can shine so brightly
after all our pain
Cautiously we inspect our joint holding.
A part of last year's garden still stands
bracken
one tough missed okra pod clings to the vine
a parody of truth cold-hard and swollen
underfoot
one rotting shingle
is becoming loam.
I take your hand beside the compost heap
glad to be alive and still
with you
we talk of ordinary articles
with relief
while we peer upward
each half-afraid
there will be no tight buds started
on our ancient apple tree
so badly damaged by last winter's storm
knowing
it does not pay to cherish symbols
when the substance
lies so close at hand
waiting to be held
your hand
falls off the apple bark
like casual fire
along my back
my shoulders are dead leaves
waiting to be burned
to life.
The sun is watery warm
our voices
seem too loud for this small yard
too tentative for women
so in love
the siding has come loose in spots
our footsteps hold this place
together
as our place
our joint decisions make the possible
whole.
I do not know when
whe shall laugh again
but next week
we will spade up another plot
for this spring's seeding.
The Black Unicorn, Poems, Audre Lorde, W.W. Norton, 1978