Taking Stock

TAKING STOCK


The old yucca, ten feet tall--
stewed in oily soup for hot weeks--
fools us with its green blades.
A breezeless day, it falls in slow, soft thud.

My Madagascar palm, bought young,
nursed through Wisconsin winters,
New Orleans Augusts, melts to jelly--
a touch and it collapses in a lump.

Everywhere the plants give up
but we go on, the lucky ones--
the garden's ruined but the house is whole
though moldy. Even with windows open
the stench gags, air does not stir,
the heat goes on and on.

I miss bird song, shadow of wings
but trees--burned, bare or prone--
offer no shelter and flocks have flown.

What is this ship we are on--
marooned in still waters,
the horse latitudes at the end of the world--
we search the sky for signs

and meet at dusk after our labors,
drink words and wine, count losses,
talk madness, make plans grand and small,
hold hands and memories in the dark,

sail into morning--
into the colorless apocalyptic dawn
of drowning and death,
waves gentle against the empty beach
miles away but near in our hearts.

A breeze brushes my cheek.
The season is turning.
We plant our gardens,
build house to house

and somewhere
in Mexico or South America or Africa--
wherever they go--
the green parrots are massing their numbers
for the long flight back home.