Helen Frankenthaler's Flood, 1967
We woke to wind-sliced trees,
smudged leaves
when the top opened down
to urge the bottom to rise up,
and split clouds like atoms
with soft explosions
unlike atoms.
Windows rattled until outside
released
its concise wind
curled into place.
Land askew, our lungs were fearful
and we had new eyes that didn't focus right.
So, we took to roofs for lack of aquatics.
We could not swim this.
What skillful hand eased over
this field of our vision,
like a knowing woman exacts a subtle hip,
a gentle power, too much rain.
We took deep breaths, looking:
so dreadful, lovely.
Watch the sky and the ground meld
into one perfect piece.
Sunday Gardening: Praise the Sky
My dirt hands are greasy under this sun. You are moss: thinly layered and cursing new growth. We respect the dull weight of pansies locked inside this garden. Vines twist and grate over the rust-worn fence. We peel
3
between another skin of mulch to add the next batch. How can the children play under this melting heat? We are not here by choice. We are obligated to these flats of wilted hardies, left out too long by our carelessness. Within this iron gate, we strive to keep alive the growth; to paint the sky top-heavy, fluff the grass from stray weeds. The hand-trowel is a slicing instrument: mixes earth that settles around the roots. We work in silence; eyebrows brim with sweat that stings. We need this last day before it's back-to-work. On deserted weekdays, the family driveway stands bare, waiting for our suppertime arrival. So we must use this time well. Budget and manage. And the children continue to play, toss giggles out to one another. My jealous throat is too dry to call them off. Why, they don't even notice the ground caked under my fingernails or the strain of your cramped back. They don't seem to notice the heat, either, like we do. Hey, they have already filled with wind, oblivious to our planting. And they have lifted off. Oh my! Their tiny figures distract me from the heavy, impatient soil, and they float over the slow edge of the trees. Airborne, the children roll in the breeze. Two tiny zeppelins dart the happy sky. Your furrowed face weighs on me to turn away, to continue this renovation. Don't worry, summer vacation is coming, you say. Spring is on our backs now. Let's just toss away the shovel; let it all grow wild, I suggest. Please finish up these last seedlings, you beseech. I acquiesce as tiny peripheral figures glide overhead. My dirt hands are greasy under this sun. You are moss thin, reigning in the cursed growth. We are done. Finally, I can pack away the last of the soil, wanting to be like those children. Now, watch me head for the yielding border of this garden, ready for take-off and up.