15:
She planted angelica to ward off evil,
hawthorn to garner hope,
damiana to excite the men.
(‘Never too old’ she admonished.)
White oleander ‘when I’m ready to go’.
Her ashes awaited dispersal on a breeze,
so I sent them forth upon her garden loam.
No lightning arced the sky that day,
but gentle healing dripped upon each mote,
dissolved to essence, imbuing all she’d sown.
Now I drink her herbal brew, when
warding off evil seems daunting alone
and hope’s a flitting shadow on my mind.
I close my eyes and conjure her visions
as though they were my own.
I drink her deeply in, then pray
and save oleander for another day.
© Freada Dillon 2004
15:
la·cu·na
An empty space or a missing part (with a nod to Eliot).
Here am I seaside,
an old woman in a dry month, estranged
from all I hoped to be,
praying for rain and redemption.
Once waves skittered up to dance
draped in seafoam petticoats
now, slink and prowl, emit guttural growls
and spit invectives through jagged teeth.
Sifting sand
I toss handfuls on the bitter breeze
then sneeze as it flies back
to sting me with curses.
Tempests stall offshore
and I, a lost gull engaged in futile flapping
struggle to break through spiral storm-bands
and fling myself against the eye-wall–
deceptive place of consolation,
false lull within my rage.
© Freada Dillon 2004
06:
Wrapped in Creole summer,
having mastered the art of fan and swat
I was swinging, mindless in a swelter of midges.
Cotton gauze hung dank at the windows.
An arousal of magnolia hovered,
cut by the bittersweet bite of julep. Pressing
the sweaty glass against my forehead
I willed the migraine to bay.
Cicada rasps punctuated sprinkler hisses.
Songfree birds were too hot to twitter;
croakless frogs too dry to plead for rain.
Raw and heat-shocked, the sky was colorless
but for a violet haze low on the southern horizon.
A sudden silence
punctuated by warm blasts of air roused me
as violet sunk to purple, then began to wick
up the vast expanse of cloudless sky.
Tendrils of wind teased my hair;
grown bolder, struck the clothesline
whipping cotton sheets into frenzy.
I hit the ground running
as hailstones peppered down, their sting
hindered all attempts to corral the bedsheets.
Purple plunged to black, roiled and rumbled:
a fork-tongued beast spitting fire and ice
galloped a gale across the flatlands,
dismissing me without a backward glance.
by Freada Dillon © 2004
06:
My rush to leave this place has dwindled to a trickle,
all attempts to move on damned
by this or that. Resigned,
and heading to the market for summer melons,
I take a turn passed a pond
that has been constant at the corner
of my vision for over 30 years: each spring
reflecting migrations of geese; summer
shimmering with midges; each autumn
stopover for returning geese, southbound.
Recent deluges should have swelled the pond, yet
this steamy morning I realize its dwindling.
I drive by slowly, scanning the rim for evidence of a breach,
make note of jagged strips of exposed pond bottom,
find no obvious reason for this slow retreat.
At this rate, the pond will relocate sooner than I.
Imagination takes me forward to autumn
and a ‘V’ of geese winging south
finding no familiar place to feed and rest
reflected only in my tears, as they continue on and I stay.
by Freada Dillon © 2004
06:
for Joe
Past midnight, lost in Frost, I pause–
something about you calls my attention.
My thoughts stray.
Covers chin-tucked-tight, you sign and snuffle.
My book slips. I lose my place, as
in sleep, innocence reclaims you.
Eyes squeezed tight against the light,
lashes curl and splay.
It’s at the bridge, Rome concurs your Celtic nose.
Your heritage is carven in your face.
Jawline, square and sleek when shaven,
is now etched in work-a-day scruff
of another brutal day.
You, as a study in sleep, still quicken me
though we’ve pulled long in the traces.
But it’s these hands, gently curved in repose,
battered, scarred and calloused, I gaze at long
in shadow play.
Hands that anoint and bless and heal
speak most to me, with eloquent grace.
by Freada Dillon © 2004
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