The Space…


with garden.
I plait shallots
for the first time
at the kitchen table
crumble the soil away
peel off moist skins with thumbs
lay them out to dry
on yesterday’s newspaper.
Smell them.
Ribs grunt
stretch to stiffness
as arms negotiate high branches.
Breath deepens.
Hands snip ties
gather in the cable
of the tiny cherry lights
that lit my garden tree for winter.
Last blackbird of evening
preening feathers
then evensong arcing
out of the mountain ash.
Breaking buds inked against fading light.
I sit in stillness at the green table. I listen.

                                                                                                                         Sylvia Rowe