POETRY

This poem was inspired by the first time I had friends come to my porch during the first summer of the pandemic. It was such a healing experience.

MEDICINE WOMAN.

Nobody sees a flower, really; it is so small.  We haven't time, and

to see takes time - like to have a friend takes time.  – Georgia O'Keeffe.

She walks head bowed, loose morning hair, dark, 

against her moss green dress. 

Her silhouette disappears and reappears 

amid the caramel grasses, topaz Autumn tassels. 

Sun begins to warm her back.

Along a deer path toward the river, pale 

green stalks of Joe Pye weed bloom.

Deep purple stems cradle small mauve clusters, 

vanilla rising to welcome butterflies. 

Left at turtle stone.

Past the stack of blackened railroad ties, barefoot,

heel-toe  one       heel-toe  two       heel-toe   three . . . .  

Her foot finds rosette leaves hugging the ground.

Bending she receives the broad-leafed offering of Plantago Major, 

its velvet underside an old friend. 

Lips unmoving, will you help me, she listens.

Fingers find the raised veins deftly.

Grateful, holding the flower stalk harmless,

she gathers leaves at every seventh plant,

To heal, to soothe, to cool, to calm.

* * * * *

Heel to toe, I walk my screened porch, stained

wood planks, to calibrate safety, measure distance.

I slide wicker chairs from intimate circle to six, eight, thirteen

feet apart, place pillows, fingering the embroidered backs.  

I sweep the floor.

Of course we'd spoken, four months of words.

Once taken for granted, now taken to heart:

Will you visit?   

My silence is gratitude, their laughter, healing.

Evening light softens my friends' full faces, golden.