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
Letter to My Garden by Erica Sternin
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Tag Archives: Garden
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
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
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
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.
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