I can remember my grandmother
     taking eggs from under a hen
    and on the way back, squirting
        milk from the udder cow.
      Srish srash, srish srash into
           a galvanised bucket.

    Out on the sill, souring lactose
       looked like a white brain in
     preserving fluid and together
    with the chickens yolk, took on
     the same colour, as the house
               of yellowed ochre.

      The mixing bowl resembled a
      world war one soldiers helmet,
     with near escapes of hen pecked
        enamel and skirmishes with
                 under fed dogs.

       Hands hauled sifted flour in
         memorised cup-holds,
           salt, a pinch in haste,
               a curse removed,
             a shoulder blessed.

         Fire, of turf, which smoke
       the walls and time caressed.
       Soda rising, raisins bursting,
    window cooling, dough to crust.
There's a steely stillness
when we talk,
a well
of steely
stabbing
silence
deep
and
deliberate.
There's a
stillness
when we
talk.
I want to
drain the
talk of hope,
give it
nowhere
to go
tear the
freshness
from your
acrimony,
silence
your
morose
decree.
Silence,
stillness
is my
creed
yes indeed.
Stop up my
ears
I need reprieve.
By your
leave
I embrace
the stillness
I have no
need to
talk.
You balk!
Your
conniving
soul
wreaks havoc
when we
talk.
old stuff, venting about an unbearable work situation.
An old black man, in a hot dry month,
sat in the shade of the Baobab tree.
The once verdant grasslands
were dry with drought,
victims of the winds of change.

“Old, they call me old.” He thought,
“my Seventy summers have turned me gray,
but this Baobab tree grew tall and strong
When Roman legions passed this way.”

The old man chewed the baobab fruit
and sank into a trance like state.
He was in a state of mind;
Not quite asleep, not quite awake.

He heard a voice: “I thirst.” It said,
Though he was sure he was alone.
It seemed not a human voice:
a dry dispassionate monotone.

“For generations, men like you
Have sought my shelter from the Sun,
But now it is finished; the land is parched
And I am dying, little one.”

The old man wept to hear these words
For when these trees die, as they must,
They collapse upon the barren ground
So quickly they return to Dust.

“The world has changed for you and me,
The winds are dry beneath the sun.
I forgive the world of men
For they know not what they have done.”

The old man woke up with a start
and raised himself up with his cane.
He wept to think this tree would die

but tears cannot replace the rain.
The Baobab tree is called "The Tree of Life" for the nutrient dense fruit it provides in Africa's dry season. As the Climate of the continent is changing and desertification is taking place the oldest of the trees are dying of thirst
The last seeds planted
sprouting exuberantly
in the summer rain.
Yesterday, Lillian told stories
while she hilled up her
onions (yellow Dutch).  
I,
weeding and loosening
soil around the dahlias
just a row over,
listening.

Warm!
The sun was warm
almost too warm,
the soil was warm
and dry.

And the old maestra told
stories while we worked.

Her trip to Japan,
with her blond curly-haired
boy. How he went
missing in the swimming pool,
then was found.
An announcer
came on to explain
that he had been found,
that he was just through
swimming.   Suddenly
everyone left the pool
when they heard this,
to follow him,
young Japanese girls running
their hands through his curls.

Lillian, the chaperone
in her red
Canada jacket,
not a clue what was going on,
said looking back
she realizes she was a little naïve.

And then later, at the Emperor's Palace
she lost him again.
He had broken through
the ropes to look
inside the palace,
(hoping to see the Emperor?)
and was escorted out
by security guards!

Then on the subway -
they were stuffed into the train -
fast, or left behind -
literally stuffed in
by transit workers.

Lillian turned to tend
to the broad beans, three
rows over, and I got
lost in the glads.

Today we're hilling
potatoes, who knows
where it will take us.
From the garden journal.
Blah blah blah
blabbity blappity bip
blah boop.
This will be my last post for, at least, the next two weeks.
Obviously, neither you nor I will be missing much.
'Strangers' have moved in next door
Now called my 'neighbors'
There is a hive of activity next door, new neighbors, young and fresh-faced
Newlyweds just starting a new chapter in their lives
In their first home together..
This has a deeper meaning  ... thanks for reading...kimx
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