Sandra McPherson: Garden Monk

—  Lucien Stryk, Davis, California, 1988

Concentric and contemplative,

he was —  on my gardened ag-land — 

not meditating on the wit

of the lemon, almond, toyon,

the tense, explosive wisteria,

or flannel bush, when I could see him;

nor on the decency of the peach,

halcyon apricot, long-nosed whiff of bay,

bulb of orange, when I could not.

.

His head appeared — implying

slow counter-clockwise timing

of the feet and then his hair

would disappear until he’d meet

the top of the counterclock again.

.

His mind was one where at a time:

the peppertree, the Jeffrey, the panoramic

sugar egg of guava petals

drew him out from a penumbra.

An apple set him in the sun.

but he named none.

.

So what if he missed them all in winter.

Cold bark, a pearly procrastination of sky.

.

I’ve thought, residing on this ring,

anything there is a god for

there is a human for;

anything there is a human for

there is an insect for —  

there are six good legs for a mantis case

tied to a shrub twig,

and a mouth for every nectarine

and serenity for every loop

that strings your laces together walking it . . . .

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From Certain Uncollected Poems, Ostrakon Press, 2012.