Outside my window, the bushes have turned, redder
than any fire, and the sky is the same blue Giotto
used for Mary’s robes. My mother says, if she still
had a house, she’d plant one or two of these bushes,
and I love how she’s still thinking about gardening,
as if she were in the middle of the story, even though
we both know, she’s at the end, the last few pages. Down
in the meadow, the goldenrod’s gone from cadmium
yellow to a feathery beige, the ghost of itself. Mother,
too, fades away, skin thin as the tissue stuffed
up her sleeve. The scars on her stomach
itch and burn, but inside, she’s still the girl
who loved to turn cartwheels, the woman
whose best days were on fairways and putting greens.
On television, we watch California go up in smoke,
flames leapfrogging ridge to ridge. Here, these leaves
release a shower of scarlet feathers, as everything starts
to let go. Oh, how this world burns and burns us,
yet we are not consumed.
Burning Bush
Show Comments (
)
Comments are automatically closed two weeks after an article's initial publication. See our comments policy for more.
The latest from america
A Reflection for Thursday of the Ninth Week in Ordinary Time, by
A Reflection for the Memorial of St. Boniface, Bishop and Martyr, by J.D. Long García
The current Farm Bill, at $1.5 trillion, represents the largest spending package in U.S. agricultural policy history; 80 percent of the spending is directed to the federal Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program.
Netflix's latest thriller "Baby Reindeer," is a chilling watch. The show haunts the viewer long after the credits roll, but not just because it is a stalker drama.