Midnight in the Garden of Zeugma


This poem is dedicated to the amazing and wonderful Maria DeBlassie and, of course, Alexander Pope.

Lucia stepped out to gather her rows,
wisps of formed phrases and gentle bon mots,
and the vegetables ripe for the picking:
crooknecks of smiles, and snap-peas clicking
wind-aching chives and chimes round the barrows,
following paths of flax through the yarrow.

Inside her head the gloom was gathering
zest and lovage and herbs for ravening:
How do you do; how fares the night for you?
How fair the garden when the moon creeps through.
Her feet gathered speed with the brooding clouds,
no room in her basket for plucking shrouds.

Back inside her house of stones, the door slammed;
she dropped the basket, spilling out her drams,
her oaths, her thoughts: outside the dust and sky;
what gathered spilled itself, suspended time,
until the tears of love had spent themselves
with time, ill-spent, and she had placed them on shelves.

The storm, once spent, broke open clearer skies
and the bank, where water surged toward the light.
Lucia stepped forth one more time for herbs,
her feet quick along the same sodden turf,
her ideas and verbs scattered to the wind,
his grave – love’s grave was gravity to mind.

Lucia gathered gravity’s first fruits,
what the storm had grasped and flung along the route:
grasping roots for gasping maiden fancy,
while light gave gravity and brilliancy
to golden hair that spilled toward his grave,
her tears tucked on shelves, or deeply interred caves.

How do you do; how fares the night for you?
How fair the garden when the moon creeps through —
wisps of formed phrases and not-so bon mots
gathered, tumultuous, inside her rows.
She laid down the yarrow, flax and smiles,
a chance to cloak her misery with guile.

Her basket emptied; yet again her heart,
she walked toward the water in the dark;
Her foot first struck the cold along the bank
and, next, her heart was filled with water, cold, dank;
the moon crept through and spilled on grassy caves,
and chives chimed dancing over both their graves.




  1. Thank you, I appreciate that. I don't think I'm a gifted poet, however. Writer, maybe. Maybe someday. Thanks for stopping by, and God bless you.

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