Among the Soils

In the evening, when the sun is bowing and the leaves are
beginning their evening rest, gentle lightning bugs swarm the 
fevered fields behind us and allow the long shades of grass to
sparkle. You can almost hear a gentle Yared or Korzeniowski
score coming from a window on the hill, one that calls for bare
feet touching the landscape.


My wife stands in the garden, contemplating the joy of
overgrown success. She is in her tank top and linen bottoms,
her bare legs caressed by the giant leaves of the zucchini plants,
as high as her hips and navel. The artichoke and basil and mint
she studies, their grasp low. She squeezes the tomatoes with
such a tender embrace as she squats for a moment between them.
She rises at a fond thought, her hands swaying across the tops of the
cucumber vines. She walks among the garden as if it is her home,
one that can not be disassembled or matted down. Her sensual
motions drive them up into the night like fog rising above the
ancient sea. The sun fades on her back, trickles of rays still left
haunting her cheeks and calves. She sees me watching from the
door and pauses. Her smile in the twilight is an act of brilliance
played out in slow motion.