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I was only eight, my nails
unpainted and pale.
We had no maids, no gardeners
to trim the hemlock, thin the ivy
climbing rows of cracking bricks.
Round confreres of rising suns
spun amber light--
this is what we had for jewels.
Canning jars in every size
replaced expensive Chardonnay
in a cellar with grit on the stairs.
This memory is worlds away,
smothered in thick diesel fumes
of a white Mercedes-Benz,
deafened by nights
of Chevas and tinkling ice.
Yet in ink, it all comes back.
We washed dull panes with vinegar
and clothing rags; every stroke
was worth the view.
Laundry chatted on the line;
missing buttons found a shirt.
If I stretch, I smell
the fragrant bygone soil,
hear your anodyne voice,
witness broad canoes of smiles
that lit cold mornings of our chores.
Your muddy knuckles worked the earth
as if a mission rang its bell;
water dropped from mutton clouds
in time to meet our rhythmic prayers.
We planted ruddy marigolds
to save the lettuce from the hares.
Your hands were maps worth reading then.
Janet Buck is a six-time Pushcart Nominee. Her poetry has recently appeared in numerous publications, including Octavo, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, The Bohemian Rag, CrossConnect, The Montserrat Review, Offcourse, The Oklahoma Review, Adagio Verse Quarterly, MiPo, and Facets Magazine. Tickets to a Closing Play, her second collection of poetry, won the 2002 Gival Press Poetry Award and is available through Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com. Janet's third book, Beckoned by the Reckoning, is currently available from PoetWorks Press: http://www.poetworks.com/JBuckBook
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