Thursday, May 19, 2011

The Women at the Garden Gate


two women are suspended, in time, for a moment,
facing each other over a garden gate. . .
each is wearied of her life
each is wondering, reflectively
about the garden . . . the road beyond,
and the unknown life of the other . .. 

The Woman of the Garden:

"Who is this fool who
stands by my garden gate
staring at the dirt
as if it were some horror
left on her plate?

She leans her knotty old
walking stick, in a familiar manner 
against my fence .  . .
her dark eyes reflect my garden . . .
like confetti thrown down
in a black pool . . .

my tender roses
dance beneath the breeze,
their crimson petals are like the wings
of books,
wafting scented memories . .
look . .  the stranger bends down
to pet the family dog . .
what has she seen . . .
why does she not see me?

The curve of the old gnarled pine
is bent and withered
like a woman past her prime . . .
she is reaching out,
not so high, for the sun,
as she used to . . .
that golden orb
has gone before her;
now she merely reaches
out trembling in her greediness for love. . .
she is lost in her reverie .. .
dark green dreams. . .
she wishes she could move her limbs
and journey far . .
she has missed that walk
down that long road
that road that shines beneath the sun . . 

the daisy is like a table,
a breakfast nook for bees,
a bed for butterflies. . .
these things rest in the shadows
and quiver in the breeze
yet I often wonder where they go
when they leave me . . .
and why I cannot follow them . . .

why is the stranger's fingers tracing
each point of my gate . . ?
is she following a mental map of her travels?
her adventures . . . her face is warmed
by the memories of her trail . . .but
perhaps she wants to enter here?
the lock keeps her away . .
who is she. . .?
from what bed does she arise?

she glances at me and smiles . . .
her eyes flashing like
a strike of white lightning. . .
the shadows of the leaves
are stroking her face with
glances of golden light;
as the friendly squirrel dances
down the sunny vine. . .
a green road suspended
across time . . "

The Woman of the Road:

"I am but this empty wind
that blows through so cold,
like the eye of winter that rambles
across the valleys and roads . .
I am but a wandering sorrow
of grief for a life so lost
in pursuit of that which does not exist. . .
walking away from love's great risk

I want to paint a picture of this rainbow of
a garden . . . so thick with fleshy flowers
cuddled up like children against
this cozy cottage . . . warm in the
orange rays of a setting sun  . ..

but this woman looks at me
as if I am possessed
perhaps she wants the stink of me
to pass on down that road . . .
that long dark, crooked road. . .

the bumblebee is nestled
in the cup of that orange flower
like a baby held in its cozy bed . .
the shadow of the  hawk hunting
one last time before the night
has startled me . .
even she has a home
to rest her head . . .

what is my destiny but to wander . . .
look . . . the lady of the garden
is smiling at me . . .
she has a dream too . . . she looks
as if she is sailing on a mighty sea of flowers . .
the golden poppies are singing
to her . .. of sunshine and daydreams . . .
oh why can't I be
that hummingbird drinking nectar
from the side of the eaves . . ."

The Woman of the Garden:

"Here, I will offer this woman at my gate
my rose with its tale of my life . .. 
it will last for a day but perhaps
give her comfort in that time . . ."

The Woman of the Road:

"My walking stick; a gift to the
gardener, the goddess of such
a land of dreams . . .. perhaps she
will dream of my travels . . ."


  Update with the music and poetry from Jamendo . . .


Van Syla said...

A very beautiful, silent dialogue!


CŒDES Pierre-Marie said...

Beautiful poem here Barb, real beauty.


Wolfsong said...

Thank you, Van Syla and PM . . . I appreciate your comments.