Monday, May 14, 2012

May 14: No Blessing, New Poem, "Garden of Eve"

Well, my Carol dip lied to me this morning.  I received no blessing.  I was looking for a free repair of my daughter's broken iPod.  Didn't happen.  After about half an hour on the phone with Apple, I realized it was going to cost me close to $200 yet again.  I'm not a happy blogger at the moment.  My wife just dropped the iPod off at the UPS store to be shipped to California.  I'm sure in a couple of days, my daughter will be the owner, yet again, of a new 4G iPod Touch.

It's going to be a long night of chauffeuring my kids around.  Religion class.  Dance class.  Many miles on my car.  My wife is going out with friends, so I am a solo act this evening.  Mother and father.  Snack-maker and SpongeBob-chooser.  Bath-giver and lullaby-singer.

Well, I promised a poem this afternoon, and I always deliver on my promises.  Well, I deliver on my promises most of the time...OK, I try to deliver on my promises 50% of the time...OK, I deliver on my promises when I already have the poem written and all I have to do is cut and paste.  This is the poem I wrote for the mother/daughter dinner at the Lutheran church last week.

Remember, Saint Marty isn't about perfection.  He's about progress...OK, he's about trying to moving forward a little...OK, he'd like everything to stay exactly the same, all the time.

The Garden of Eve

I have found stones, blood
In this soil. I have dug deep,
Until my fingers struck dirt
As black as Eden’s mud.
I pressed seeds into this mud,
Covered them with more mud.
Waited. Dreamed of the nights
In Eden, when the Lord walked
Through the trees, his footsteps
Filled with mango and banana,
The sigh of plum and peach. I didn’t
Have words for pear or persimmon
Then, knew them only by tongue,
Their sweet meat and water.
Name was not important.
I was curve of rib, sickle
Of bone. I was deep sleep.
Companion. Eater of wisdom.
I try to grow Eden’s gifts now.
I listen at night for the Lord
To pass over, listen for pineapple spine,
The hairy cheek of kiwi.
My womb has blossomed many times.
Like a seed, I have split open,
Born bitter blood orange,
Rubies of pomegranate.
I nursed them to green summer,
To bud and flower.
Now, I watch you, as you stretch,
Reach toward rain, sun. You.
Rib from rib. Bone from bone.
I accept my garden labor.
Drought. Flood. Grub. Sand.
I work with my hands
Until they turn hard as adobe.
All for you. First daughter.
Garden and gardener. Eve’s song.

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