Letter to My Garden by Erica Sternin

Zucchini leaf

Zucchini leaf

This morning, mildew powders the zucchini leaves
and crows fly the obsidian highway.
Savoring my first dark coffee,
I long to plunge my fingers

Continue reading

Advertisements

Geologic Time by Erica Sternin

Gallery

This gallery contains 1 photo.

The gardener’s middle aged, hummingbird mind Cannot encompass geologic time. She tosses the speckled stone from her seedbed. The little red stone was Earth’s first daughter; Volcanic ejecta, bouldered into a stream, And scoured by her lover. Intercourse pulverized her, … Continue reading

If I Were Doing Things Right, I Wouldn’t Have Cancer

002

Daphne odora marginata

There is a sort of comfort in imagining that we have control over the world. Better to blame ourselves for becoming mortally ill than to truly experience the helplessness of accepting randomness and chaos. “If I were doing things right, I wouldn’t have cancer.” Continue reading

Dawn by Erica Sternin

Photo Credit:  Catherine Singleton

Photo Credit:
Catherine Singleton

In the firstlight, a lone honeybee stumbles

across the dew-laden grass

like a drunken husband returning home far too late.

A breeze with glass sharpened edges naughtily scoots

beneath the evergreens’ weighted skirts, nipping the juicy places

Where musty apple scents are offered like an eager lover.

Gilded leaves whisper, gossiping like neon raindrops as they fall, and

Chipping wrens flick-tail from branch to twig like gray popcorn,

never seeing the green-eyed cat in the musty dimness below.

Like a diver on the high board, trembling … breathless…

The moment is poised…

And finally, decisively, one strong golden shaft of sunlight pries its way between the

Unshaven legs of the fir trees, and another morning is broken.

Things They Don’t Tell You About Having Cancer

Photo Credit: Macroscopic Solutions

Photo Credit: Macroscopic Solutions

There are a million, million things they don’t tell you about having cancer, about being sick and almost dying and being resurrected, and wondering if it were worth it since you feel like a dirty rug for years afterward. A million things.

They don’t tell you that it smells of sex at the root zone in your garden. Continue reading

Geologic Time by Erica Sternin

The gardener’s middle aged, hummingbird mind

Cannot encompass Geologic Time.

She tosses the speckled stone from her seedbed.

The little red stone was Earth’s first daughter;

Volcanic ejecta,

Bouldered into a stream,

And scoured by her lover.

Intercourse pulverized her,

For an Age they carved a canyon.

Here now, palmed briefly, she’s tossed to the verge.

The brief joy of flight recalls her pyroclastic beginnings,

The giddiness of being bladed by a glacier

From her river-lover’s bed

To this hillside.

The gardener, tweezing threadlike roots,

Fine as the hairs on her own damp chin,

Feels a sudden vertigo.

Her head drops to a loamy pillow.

And as she takes her final breath

She notes the coital tang

Of water and minerals at the root zone.

And the speckled stone squats

Motionless at the side of the garden.