Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Being

The woman walks up the mountain

and then down. She wades into the sea

and out. Walks to the well,

pulls up a bucket of water

and goes back into the house.

She hangs wet clothes.

Takes clothes back to fold them.

Every evening she crochets

from six until dark.

Birds, flowers, stars. Her rabbit lives

in an empty donkey pen. The sea is out

there as far as the stars. Always quiet.

No one there. She may not believe

in anything. Not know

what she is doing.

Every morning

she waters the geranium plant.

And the leaves smell like lemons.

Linda Gregg

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

Sharon, do you have any one of Linda Gregg's books?

-angeline

bibliobibuli said...

going to buy for sure ...

i found this online at the washington post website and then took a look at some of her other poems

Brainless Gonk said...

The sea is out there as far as the stars. Always quiet.

Sounds like a tsunami approaching. I think she's gotta get outa there ASAP.

bibliobibuli said...

i think we just don't trust the sea anymore ...

Brainless Gonk said...

Yeah, I agree. People pay tons of money to live by the beach. We spend hours relaxing on the beach, getting a tan. The more ambitious spend hours surfing and eventually get very good at it. Quite amazing really. The beach and sea must be one of the favourite places to go for a holiday. And now this happens. I think the one of the worst places may have been on that train in Sri Lanka. Not a very good way to die. At least Ariel Sharon didn't really know what hit him when he lost consciousness.

Anonymous said...

So what's a good way to die ? over a keyboard ? you'd be typing and all of a suddeaigm'aL:W

Plus you'll have grid marks on your face when they bury you, not a good thing. But what a way to go though.