Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Breaking The Fast Early

Poppy seed baked goods lend themselves to the whole contrast, spiral yin/yang thing, don't they?

When my finger rips the paper packet
Seeds burst out all over my hands, no matter,
You always say it's better
Scattershot. These hands, oh how I wish
These were not my hands, crabbed
And cracked, their grace a ghost.

All so tiny, so tiny, I wouldn't know where
They fall even if my eyes could make out
Where they fall. What kind of seed
Would demand a fall planting?
I'll buy the lie of freshening air,
Pretend this is a place fit to begin.

There, there, find a niche, little spill,
Frost, earth heave and crack--
They say you want to be broken like that.
It's hard to believe. In summer,
Skin-thin wrinkled petals, a fat
Sac of sap. If this works, next fall,
Your pain will be nothing and your vision
Brilliant and it will feel like it will never end.


Slothrop said...

This one if one of my favorites; love your poems about plants & the soil. I used to grow Chinese poppies & am well acquainted with those sacs of thick sap. Man, those papery fluttering petals, like silk skirts or the ribbons of girls' boaters. You make me want to grow them again - it should never end.

Maria Padhila said...

I miss you, slothrop. I miss writing, too. Gods aren't talking to me much lately. Will have to wait it out.