willow shade
Suddenly grown frail, you suffer us
to lift you from the bed
that sprouted, mushroom-like,
in the family room to meet your need.
Settled on the wheelchair's pillowed seat,
you wait as we cushion your palsied arm
that once beat cakes by hand
and painted tiles with butterflies and pansies.
We wrap your legs in a crocheted cocoon
for the slow journey around the house
to the backyard and willow's shade.
On the late-June breeze, faint fragrance
drifts from wiry vines that tangle the bank.
I bring small flowers of cream and gold,
draw out each pistil's slender thread
to drop a bead of nectar on your tongue-
return the gift of sweetness given long ago.
The grid of slender leaves sifts sunlight
onto your face and lap. We watch
sparrows and finches flit from dark yews
to bob for seeds on trays, then dart away.
"I hear the choir in the tower," you say,
"their voices blend and blend so beautifully."
The arch of willow branches will not hold
you here, nor can our love detain you.
You are grafted now to more lasting roots;
the song that you alone can hear
is real to you as tree and flower,
as birds and daughters. "I'm tired,"
you confess at last. We begin
the careful journey back to your bed.
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lunar therapy
Lampblack and silver transform the porch.
With pillar flutes against my back,
I keep company with the anorexic moon.
I don't mention her recurring decline;
she swallows all memory of you
in a crater at the edge of shadow.
Her passionless light ices the scar
I seared along the wound
left when you cut yourself away.
Tomorrow, I will drink the wine
of the sun's gold grapes and dance.
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Melody Lewis lives in northern Pennsylvania
with her husband and daughter. Recently returned to writing poetry after
a long hiatus, she has been active as a moderator at The Critical Poet
and Gandy Creek poetry forums. When not writing poetry, she works
for an Internet software development company and volunteers as a teacher
in a therapeutic horseback riding program.
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