Memories Rising: A Space of Green
Summer winds are blowing now
across the desert floor,
weaving a drunkard’s path
through creosote and dry scrub sage.
A vagrant whirlwind
heads in my direction.
Its gritty breath confronts my face,
a hot slap of reality
on the eve of the fourth of July.
Before I can reach the gate,
the sand burns the soles of my bare feet.
I bury my toes in damp garden soil
for relief,
sit on my wooden stool
in the shade
among the herbs.
Fragrance rising
from oregano, tarragon, mint.
A cool spray falls from the misters
through torn nursery netting,
strung between four posts,
repaired and tied-off to rusty nails.
Grape leaves invade the diamonds
in the redwood lattice walls.
A baby jack rabbit hides in the corner
munching weeds.
And I am speechless.
For nearly 10 years I have found relief
in this 8-by-12-foot oasis.
My wifeused to tell his friends
that building herthat little green space
was the only reason she stayed
in the desert.
I would sit for hours,
visually weary of an alien land,
absorbing lush green shades;
memories rising
from oregano, tarragon, mint,
rosemary on the border.
Now I have lavender memories as well,
and fragrant, beckoning rose memories
tucked around the corner.
Visions of wildflowers,
summer peach and fig,
healing aloe vera,
tomatoes mulched in hay.
Zinnias, planted by my wife;
olive trees, pepper trees,
watered by my son
growing with a family.
Over the years I have come to depend
on this symbolic space,
now fading into muted tones
beneath the desert sun,
a few delicate herbs surviving
where stronger plants have failed.
It remains a space of green,
the oasis of my imagination;
and my craving of this gentleness
has moved from want to need.
Relief from daily stress
is harder to find now.
I bury my mind in words,
dig my fingers
into their cool, conceptual soil
and type them out for relief,
recite them to myself in the garden,
send them telepathically into the sky.
Waiting for a physical release,
a liberation that never comes.
My father loved the fourth of July,
as much as mother did not.
She who chose to die in Indiana
(her spirit rising
just before the fireworks),
and now haunts our memory
on this first anniversary eve.
A dry sentiment blows across
the image of her grave at Ross Point Cemetary;
my mother--a constant slap of reality,
now buried in the damp soil but not next to him,
my father with the gentle, loving arms.
I question my hybrid origins,
crossing father’s generosity
with mother’s thorns.
Conceal my fear that her yearnings
were the cause of her chronic discontent,
that I may have underestimated
his silent, passive behavior as her spouse.
I worry about the traits
of my own children,
their growing misconceptions
of kindness and strength.
My garden keeps these secrets
from the world.
Private thoughts,
hidden beneath the shade cloth
lashed to rusty nails.
A fragrance, a face in the mist,
quiet and gentle to the touch,
causing cool, damp memories to rise.
Rays of reality, the falling desert sun,
filtered through the latticework,
illuminating my confinement
in a faded space of green.
I believe, as the night progresses,
that I am growing soft,
and that life may have
a melancholy manon its hands.
I plant my yearnings like dream seeds
and watch them grow
into thin air.
I bury mother’s memory
without disturbing the soil.
Release my wife, my children,
to the whirlwind of their lives.
Prune back my obligations
to the bare roots.
And in this dry, encumbered desert life,
indulge myself in fantasies...
lying in a bed of green,
my spirit soaring like fireworks,
brilliant colors exploding from my mind,
desert suns, moons, words
falling from the sky,
a mist of gentle phrases
wrapped in my mother's arms,
a fragrant, verdant energy
embraced with all my heart,
surrendering my true self
in joyous celebration
to an ultimate release.
Seeking solace from memories rising.
Seeking life beyond my silent isolation,
entrapped in my
.
Seeking just one precious moment of freedom
on the eve of the fourth of July.
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