An October Sestina: Garden

A sestina I wrote when our youngest was five months old...

Garden

An October blue-sky golden walk in my garden

Bare feet, cooling ground, warm sun on my skin,

Snapping basil stems, overflowing armloads crush up into my face.

The scent overwhelms.  Perfect tomatoes fill my hands

With sun soaked heat.  I rub off the crust

Of honest dirt and carry all inside dreaming of olive oil

The jar is empty.  I pad down cool stairs for more oil.

The kitchen table overflows with garden

Treasure.  Visions dance – something with a golden crust

Of cheese.  On the counter dough rises in a mound smooth as baby skin.

Curving it out of the bowl, I pull and stretch.  Husband puts his hands

On my shoulders.  I brush my eye and trace my face

With flour.  I wipe my hands and turn to face

Him with a kiss.  “If you want to help sit and oil

The pans.”  So he sits and works.  I shape and stretch.  He hands

Me oiled pans.  I slip in the loaves and go back out to the garden

for the eggplant I just saw from the window, purple skin

Gleaming.  Grilled, I think, with a little parmesan, to give it a nice crust.

The kids made sugared grapes – luscious rounds coated with a crust

Of sparkling hoarfrost.  I slice warm bread, drizzle garlic butter on the face

Of each piece and set it on the table.  Husband peels the wax skin

Off the cheese. I scrub the cast iron skillet then wipe it with oil

Till it gleams.  Husband opens the door to call the kids in from the garden.

They spill in with the slanting sun.  I tell them to wash their hands.

At my chair the sleeping cradled baby’s hands

Curl open like petals.  The sunlight halos his head and a crust

Of milk has dried on his cheek.  We look ‘round the table at our garden,

Full of impatient life, the evening sun glowing on each face.

Suddenly I see I live with heedless saints who, all unknowing, pour the oil

Of their spirits over my rough heart and salve my chaffed skin.

I take out the garbage and freezing rain pierces my shocked skin.

Husband clears the dishes while upstairs I fill my hands

With washrag and soapy child.  Husband creeps up and daubs my neck with bath oil.

Inside we thickly mulch each child with blankets, outside ice forms a crust

On muddy puddles.  In the warm bed Husband’s beard tickles my face.

Ice rain scatters and pebbles against the window.  I dream of the garden.

In my dream a new garden breaks through the crust

Of a bare earth.  Fresh oil like sunlight drenches my skin

And I lay the curves of my face in warm and tender hands