At Straight Bay \ Poppies In The Corn

Alan:  Even in the country, the wild animals are mostly “out there.”  But every so often, their lives and ours intersect and then what should we do?

At Straight Bay

The beaver died before dark

where we had placed it in the back of the truck

in a crate with grass, water and poplar bark.

It had shivered in the sun

all afternoon, covered in a coat, where some kids

had found it.  No telling what was wrong.

“So hard to do the right

thing.  So many animals have died on my hands.”

You cried some.  It pelted rain all night.

I dug a hole the next day

near the old salt-gnarled poplar that grows

in the stiff earth at the edge of the bay.

You wrapped it up and carried

all that beaver sleekness as tenderly as a babe

down the hill, across the field to where it was buried.

Nancy:  While Papa’s vegetables and Granny’s flowers knew their places, I love the intermingled, unexpected happenstance.

Poppies In The Corn

Now that I’m older than my father,

older even than my grandmother,

I can do as I please.  It’s ok with me

that daffodils are coming up in the potatoes,

nicotiana in the corn, poppies

everywhere.

Not that the garden’s untidy.  My rows

are as straight as my father’s, my

flowers as prolific as Granny’s; if

they were disembodied spirits hovering overhead

they could hardly find fault.

No, my hands are as stained,

my beds as tidy, my bean poles as straight

as either of them could wish.  Could

they understand, those lingering ghosts,

why I coax flowers to raise their heads

where they will?  Listen:

Now that I’m older than either of you, my

loving fierce antagonists, I will bring you

together at last, in my garden; in my garden

where I can love you both best.

“At Straight Bay” first appeared in Slow Dancer magazine.