Fall 2015

Volume 10, Issue 2



My Last Spring in My House and Garden


I planted my sanctuary 
for a future I will not see—
where I lived for 35 years,
where I’d hoped to grow old.

I sit motionless under the trees
and watch my blossoms falling
and bruising on the ground.

If I could, I would slip
into the soil like a buried seed.
Instead I am being blown far,
far away—I, who always
clung so close to home.

When he walked out of the marriage,
it was as if lightning struck our oak,
splitting it in half, not cleanly,
but with spikes and jagged edges.

No more soaring trunk,
no more roots in this fertile earth,
watered by my tears,
sparkling in the spring sun.




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© 2015 Americana: The Institute for the Study of American Popular Culture