Silver

lamb's ears

Wet behind the ears, gentle

as a lamb – innocence wrapped

in silver paper, tied with

remembering string knotted

on ancient knuckles.  He may

not know their names any more

(Time has seen to that), but he

could tell them just when to cut

the wheat, where to find the best

Saskatoon bushes – bent like

beasts of burden beneath their

berry up-dos – how to get

the last  drop of sweet milk from

that skittish cow. His silver

mane beads with the effort at

recollection; memory,

ephemeral wisp, drips off

like sweat on yesterday’s dust.

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This is a leaf from a ‘Lamb’s Ear’ plant…

What She Saw

frilly daylily

 

A daylily, ruffled and still

with folds of fresh linen (freshly

made bed) soaking up sunshine on

laundry-day line. She paused there, caught

helplessly on its anthers, struck

by the glory that withered while

she watched. ‘Why bother?’ she asked no

one in particular. Leaning

in, she traced the petticoats, breathed

deep of Arabian nights, veiled

virgins dancing on memory’s

edge. Eloquence beckoned on pale

finger with nail painted purple,

folding to hide philosopher’s

stone. Time passed. Conquerors and kings

and sleeping beauties, history

and fantasy, who she could be

in the morrow swayed and unfurled

in complex rhythms and secret

whispers. Her back straightened, rigid

barrier, and, closing her eyes,

she walked blindly back to the house.