(Poem by Wendy Howe )

The leaves are still green, too green
and wet from the recent rain.
They remind her of the jungle's roof --

sharp light
falling through the trees
like machete blades
her captors held
and often threatened
to hone against her frail neck.

She longs for Autumn
to blush the garden ripe
with deep and soft colors.
The fruit on her table
partially grants this wish.
Plums, peaches and grapes
 smell sweet; and when eating them,
she lets the juice  seep
into her palms
as if it were a saint's blood,
rare and blessed.

Even the pits seem desirable,
stones to stone dreams
of  too much rice and beans,
 arroz y frijoles
served day after day
with the rattle of a padlock
and hunger itching more
than her insect bites.

While she ate, a rubber band
held her long hair in place,
and a prayer asking
to taste blue plums
kept her humanity intact,
tender -- - Our Lady of Guadalupe
sustaining her soul then
and now as the marble patroness
of her garden.

© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.

To know more  about this poem,   about Wendy Howe

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" Tendres prunes de Septembre "

(Drawing by )

Tendres prunes de Septembre

© 2011,

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