Soaking
After watering the gardens
and watching wet fall
in so many patterns—
sprays and snaky diamond blobs
when I whipped the hose
back and forth over the startled herbs
I let myself down into the water I drew
inside the house, rushing water
making a mini waterfall, beckoning—
big pile of peach soap bubbles,
filling the tub like whipped cream—
so delicious to my hungry skin
overheated from the afternoon,
starting to show sun’s blush—
just a hint of luster from oil
and sweat, dusted with potting soil—
needing the slide into clean water,
needing to float drained limbs
in whatever pond
I can make for myself
and three yellow duckies,
my skin drinks it all in.
2 comments:
What a lovely comment on the all-too-short distance between what we cultivate and who we are, biologically...
And what an interesting way to get to the universal.
I wonder if there needs to be a little more plants-in-the-garden before you get to the poet-in-the-bath...
Oh, and this stanza, even as spare as it is, is nice...
"just a hint of luster from oil
and sweat, dusted with potting soil—"
Thank, Ariel. I thought perhaps there had been too much "plants in the garden" in my writing this month.
It's that burst of activity that comes and goes so fast. This writing will help me recall it once I am a prisoner of summer's heat.
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