Three months steeped in the cold, damp and mold,
Fraught with such fear and seemingly endless frustrations,
Ended at last in a cheap little piece of heaven,
With running water, heat and an electric stove.
My heart slowed down a little each time
I felt warm water running over my skin
Or stood in my tiny galley cooking a meal,
But most when I took in the wee slice of a back yard,
Bordered by four dormant bushes some eight feet tall.
Unaware of what the bare limbs promised,
I secretly hoped for overwhelming beauty
As the electric heat mellowed December's ague,
And the abundance of water washed January clean.
February felt something like shy forgiveness
And March blew out some of the self-loathing,
So by April, I was hardly whole again,
But I felt slightly more human than ghoul.
The bushes put on pointed green shoots
That sent me back to my Ozark childhood
And a little struggling lilac bush facing the front door.
Spring frosts in Missouri often thwart
Even the heartiest attempts at a sweet little life,
As though one must be perpetually reminded
That their natural state trembles weakly
Against the statutes and wild whims of nature.
I remembered, too, my granny's bushes,
Planted after the descent from the barren rocky top
Down to the fertile valley by the creek,
Where watermelons and corn grew so well.
By the time I arrived on the scene,
Her lilacs and forsythias and hydrangeas
Stood nigh as tall as Granddad's white crown,
And her daffodils and the sweet honeysuckle
Banking the top of the fence had matured
To a strength even Spring frosts couldn't touch.
When the winds carry me home I always go back,
Though it must now be clandestine,
In trespass upon some out-of-towner's property,
Where my memories grew up simple but enduring
From the uninspiring Missouri dirt.
They tore out all of Granny's beloved flower bushes,
Yet I can sit with eyes closed and almost remember
The way the wind mingled heavenly perfume
With the uniquely sour stench of urine and dirt
Made when the men pissed from the front porch into the yard.
Her entire life could well be defined by that smell,
As though her thirst for sweetness and beauty
Was never without the taint of a man's demand
For freedom to do as he pleased without mitigation,
Be it her father leaving her to ward her siblings
While he left to Dapper Dan about St. Louis,
Or her husband pissing on her yard and planting child after child
In her overworked womb, til she was overrun
With children and their children and all their needs.
After 60 years in the yoke, with all her toil taken for granted,
Hated and maligned for never being fully meet to the task,
She buckled, her muscles could not even hold,
And her ribs began to lap over one another,
Giving her pain unimaginable as she fell to her knees,
Unable to further endure the strain of poverty's thankless toil.
So when the buds of April revealed to me lilacs,
I felt almost like myself again, and when the buds blossomed,
I buried my face in their softness and remembered her,
As their heavy perfume, almost palpable, melted my misery
By reminding me that I rose from strong, simple stock,
And that no matter how sour the stain on my sweetness,
I would always have the flowers and their perfume
To remind me of days of laughter and love.
