This section of “Still Left In Eden” explores the foundation of our spiritual house as well as those buildings that emotinally influence our everyday habitation. These poems reflect a pensive muse who is haunted by the fourndation of history past and present. Often, the spirit of an antique homstead draws me in. The emotions, memories and dreams of its deceased residents still linger. They dwell in a stratoshpere of their own. The power of love and prayer, for instance, was strongly felt in this burnt-out shell of a farmhouse I toured in the photo above. I did not know the true story of lives thatwalked these floors, grew warm by the hearthside, piled wood, or tended the garden outside. Yet, I sensed a sheltering beauty in these ruins. The dwelling became a medium through which I could envison the following:
A forsaken garden. Limestone echoes
the shell of a house, almond trees
lean toward the moon, and I pause
shadowing these pillars of time.
My back catches the breath of ghosts
drifting in from the field and woodshed.
A girl bundles her arms with leafy herbs,
a man smells of hearthsmoke as he flings
seasoned timber into the flames.
She prepares to slit stems, extract juice
and mix a potion to cool her son’s fever.
He kneels, wipes dust from his hands
and thinks his quill will spark
more illumination than the fire.
Soon, the poet will compose a hymn
first asking God to bless their child,
then praising the moment’s light
as his wife’s auburn hair
softens the table’s splintered oak,
as her fingers untangle plants
hoping the task itself
will straighten fate and realign
their lives with spring, The door open
the night laying blossoms
along its pewter sill.