The garden shed
finds her in deep meditation,
the chokecherry bush has her
insanely mystified, predisposed
of wet sweet woodruff to flavor May
wine aging in Mason canning jars, her
fingers turning the pages, Old Farmer's
Almanac hidden under the feather tick day
bed, forbid it be confiscated lest someone find
her secret wrapped in vintage lace,
collecting
potter's mud
beside the creek,
inspired by a clump
of moss so soft, so
penetrable, the dark
corner of the garden shed
beckoned her at full stride,
Pussy feeds the potato bin,
the walnut bucket filled to the
brim, archer's dartboard, antique
wooden buckboard rim, her hockey
sticks hanging five for fighting, time out,
she padlocks the inside hasp, duck decoys
and oars silent, waterfowl art, easel with the
duck stamp canvas, vintage crocks stenciled
artists mica flakes, dried honeycomb lifted from the
bee hives, snowshoes tracked wives, Currier & Ives,
hoes and rakes, cattails and clothesline rope,
Norman Rockwell,
my Saturday Evening Post,
an encounter with renewed passion
that keeps itself this side of the door,
the permeating fragrance of sweetpeas
twisting up a tipi of stakes, today's clothes
she wore strewn on the sawdust floor, the hour
of the day when the scent intensifies, sensuously
intoxicated on the focus on handcrafted dwellings,
she holds her breath, hoping to prolong the moment...
Copyright 9/19/09 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist
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