by Jim Bishop


by Jim Bishop

first breath of evening another season at the full sitting here

at the edge of the garden as the light changes as the season turns

you feel more than hear the forms of life in conversation grasses

trees even underground an indeterminate chorale toward what end

but stored intentions coded prompts from god knows where

in the fading beebalm a hummingbird is making do marigolds

nasturtiums zinnias holding their pedestrian glory even through

the pinch of early frost in the lengthening shadow cast by a bordering

pine they seem now to relax their grip exhale when as if this modest

plot dug from hard-pack clay were become in the waning light a portal

to some ancient ground where mingle the living and the dead she

appears my mother out of nowhere drawn perhaps by the astringent

smell of marigolds the flowers of the dead or my passing thought of her

tending her scruffy flower bed abutting the foundation of the old frame

house before they tore it down

mama now at peace so she seems granted reentrance to this remembered

green sanctum in a life of making do and me here in my worldly wicker

chair permitted witness while around us chipping sparrows flit and peck

at the season’s late bequest before their own migrations it is to be reminded

we are still in play a patch of compost in the wake of stars