A drop of sweat trickles down my back
And I gather my hair in a fist and
Twist it above my head, standing,
Turning to let the faint breeze dry the back of my shirt
Cool my neck
I pull my shirttail up to wipe my face
Sweat dripping off my eyelashes
“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”
It’s true
But I’m addicted more to weeding than
To air conditioning
I retreat to the kitchen long enough
To pour tea into a mason jar
Then toss my shoes, fold up my jeans legs
And sit cross-legged on the porch swing
Idly watching hummingbirds
An uncoordinated swallow lets the tea run down my shirt and
I let it
It will dry quickly and meantime
It feels cool running across my collarbone
Sometimes I think about how odd I am
Out of step with time,
With people,
With common concerns
I’m comfortable in my solitude – in my gardens
In the woods – lost in my books –
I think about God a lot. Or with Him.
I study bugs instead of politics
I love the challenge in the simplicity of pulling weeds;
Coaxing life from seeds;
Creating with my hands.
I go barefoot more and more.
I’m growing backward, I think
And my eyes crinkle at myself.
Back I travel through the interests of centuries
Will I finally end up
In Eden?
I unbutton my top button
Press the sweating mason jar between my breasts
Drop my head back and feel my whole body cool
My mind goes back and forth between poetry and practicalities
As if there is a difference
Sit here for a few more minutes?
Grab my pen and write of Eden? Or –
Plant the seeds I just made room for and take advantage
of the coming rain?
I sigh, run the jar back up, alongside my neck
Then take a long swallow
This time it goes down right
I finish the glass, rattle the ice cubes
Retrace my steps through the kitchen,
Into my shoes,
Detour just enough to find a hair band, then I’m
Out the back door to my fragment
Of Eden.
Tessa Chenoa
©May 2019