The Housewife Sez:

Posted by on 04.17.10 | 3 Comments
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Ecstasy as Housewifery

I light red candles for the table. I sing to the trees

as they leaf. I practice mundane ecstasy. I wash

breakfast dishes in pear-scented suds and look

out the window at slow burgeoning buds

and know, too, of the soft grey nubs

where the peach flowers will not come this year—

December’s frost was too much with them

and the cold turned them dull and barren.

And further in the distance, the vacant acre of dirt

where the garden will grow once the soil gets warm.

Already my fingers itch to dig in the rows.

Already we’ve planted the radishes that no one

in our home wants to eat, but such pleasure

to see them grow so fast, welcome proof that things ripen

when given the chance. Some things take so long to season—

like mothering and forgiveness. And learning to love things

as they are. And these constant lessons in letting go of fear.

And so I recite love poems to the sky. I thank the flour

as I knead it before I leave it to rise. I open the doors

of the heart, I fling them wide, wider, wider still.

I look for divinity in green vegetables as I dice. Oh

mountain top, oh river lodge, oh retreat by the sea.

Oh home, this familiar place where we practice ecstasy.

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