The mulberry tree is heavy with fruit,

Branches dipping low with berries--

Juicy purple shadows ‘neath thick green leaves.

The air is thick,

Swollen with water and perfume

Rose-of-Sharon

Lilac

Packesandra crawling drunkenly

Over the ripe peat.

Only the roses do not bloom—

Wilted buds slung over,

Intoxicated with sun and heat.

The house buzzes—

The clink of china coffee cups,

Sizzling of oil on the stove,

Sewing machine humming

--sounds swallowed up

by the oppressively expectant yard.

In the garden

Tomatoes and peas

Lie in Wait.

We stand under the mulberry tree,

Where once a wooden swing

Lullabyed babies.

Absorb the silence,

Ache to catch the whispers—

In the corner of the garden

We giggled

Digging for worms

Salting the slugs hidden ‘neath zucchini flowers

Mouths stained purple with berry juice

Soft baby feet

Caked with grass and dirt.

She is always too generous.

We take, drink in, consume.

Do not look at our watches

Or mark the tracks of time.

 

***