My poor husband, bless him, had to go back to work on Tuesday. He worked so unbelievably hard this weekend. Not only did he pick up the slack because of my limited abilities, but he told me that it would all be worth it, even if the garden wasn't successful, as long as I enjoyed it. Is it any wonder I've held on to him for ... almost 21 years?!
(not ours, sigh)
by Ruth Stone
You have rented an apartment.
You come to this enclosure with physical relief,
your heavy body climbing the stairs in the dark,
the hall bulb burned out, the landlord
of Greek extraction and possibly a fatalist.
In the apartment leaning against one wall,
your daughter's painting of a large frilled cabbage
against a dark sky with pinpoints of stars.
The eager vegetable, opening itself
as if to eat the air, or speak in cabbage
language of the meanings within meanings;
while the points of stars hide their massive
violence in the dark upper half of the painting.
You can live with this.
from: In the Next Galaxy by Ruth Stone. Copyright 2004 Ruth Stone.