Bev Rennie

SANDRA LYNN HUTCHISON

Garden After Coma

I awoke and there it was —
the garden not a garden but a green
oasis of salvation, a wavering image
on the roof of a cave illuminated by a single
candle, a phantom reflection of my face in a stream,
a budding of branches after long months of hard rain,
breeding ground for late-arriving robins, place of rendezvous
for a conclave of earth worms, sweet refuge for a phalanx of ants
in sure formation, dwelling place for a family of gaudy perennials,
abode of the sunflower, magnet for pools of fallen leaves never raked,
fragrant berth in which to lie at the beginning and end of a long journey,
echo of a dream of childhood, its wild joy lingering like a mist that covers
everything without warning early in the morning, a land promised and given,
a single point of adoration — this garden, this kingdom, this haven, this heaven.

Earthly Things

Long before we were made
the earth spilled over with names —
a wave of yearning gestures
to remember love.

The Adam we speak of
didn’t precede the trees,
their green announcement
of heart-shaped leaves

rising out of the maelstrom
into articulate form
graced with blossoms,
fruit and seeds.

The world was botanical —
vegetal in nature,
God made the gourd
and it was fresh

could be roasted over a fire
or boiled until its flesh
released the nutty fragrance
of earth into air.

It was perpetual summer
in those days
before the fallen winter
and we set out

with wandering steps
and slow
to make our way
through what was left.

Then came the naming
of the names,
when we stood apart
from plants and birds,

living things we loved,
called out their names,
like distant relatives
come to claim kin —

common zinnia, Norway maple,
blue spruce, wood thrush,
spring warbler,
dove.