1
camelia
wet brown camelias
have fallen upon green grass -
death, new life, lamplit
2
lizard
the drowned lizard I found
carelessness or weather's toll -
do you care, lizard?
3
jardim
Memorizing this
silence, a garden, spring rain
time to plant again
4
the fly
even a fly's death
seems inconsolably sad -
here such a short time.
5
death
Spring's come, sun, but cold
I remember one I lost -
has it been ten years?
Grandmother told stories.
With tips of her fingers,
she imitated
ant, spider, inchworm
climbing our arms
until we could name
the lives upon us.
On summer afternoons
when settled round the picnic table
in the shade of the swing oak
she'd narrate us safely into woods
under the moon
where her voice would prod and hiss us up trees.
These, she'd say, are the dark pines where the polecats play.
We'd imagine them paused
claws in bark,
a deeper blur blow as they hunted for meat.
Know to stay away from them,
grandmother would say
they are witchy
keen to make mischief
________________________________________________
Some people say that they're seen as a symbol of an upcoming productive and fruitful period in life.
Gale (Ancient Greek: Γαλῆ, romanized: Galê, lit. 'weasel, marten' pronounced [galɛ̌ː]) is a minor character in Greek mythology. She was a very skillful witch.
According to Aelian's On the Characteristics of Animals, Gale was a talented witch who dealt in herbs and potions. But she was extremely lascivious, and had abnormal sexual desires. For this Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft, turned her into a small, "evil" (in the words of Aelian) animal bearing her name, gale (a land-marten or polecat).[1]
Thus the animal became one of the most commonly associated ones with Hecate. Martens/weasels were thought to have magical potency in ancient Greece, though not necessarily of the beneficial kind.[2]
Gale's name shares an etymology with that of Galanthis, another mortal woman who was turned into a weasel at the hands of an angered goddess.[2]
tourão
The olive jar slipped.
Saw salt water and fruit
plash among smashed glass,
sands of which I'll find for weeks.
Clean, chamomile-scented,
kitchen floor tiles
show motes of dark dirt
flung under the door
fleeing high winds, more rain.
Thyme-seeded soil,
lost to soft mold,
enters the bin bag too.
My hand's unsteady,
worn by the storm,
saddened by seed death.
I take a breath,
tie up the trash,
pull on boots,
pocket keys,
go out.
I need sun, but the rain's won.
There is peace
that persists in small things -
warm spring earth stubbled green,
a quiet neighborhood schoolyard after
midday play ends,
a cat asleep in the sun.
All things ordinary are hard won
yet often invisible.
I sometimes think
we are animals afraid of
stillness,
of an everyday indivisibility.
Is it possible to stop fidgeting,
for even a brief moment?
I am changing the garden,
rearranging, potting up
grasses and succulents,
and spindly geraniums
that smell of citrus.
The trees are pruned, and soon
the lavender.
The planters wait for flowers, to be planted
among onions, chickweed, and
struggling alyssum.
The terrace smells of laundry and salt.
My mind reaches into the soil,
pulls out hurt,
worry, white paper -
so few words.
