In the Garden #2
12X9" (includes black wood frame, 14x11" SOLD
This piece was inspired by a poem by Danusha Laméris, from her book of poems, Bonfire Opera. Shared here with the author's permission.
WORKING IN THE GARDEN, I THINK OF MY SON
Who is nothing, now, but a few fistfuls of ash. Not even that, since ash
dissolves and is taken into the bodies of plants, or swept into the air
on the wind. He’s so very fine he slips undetected
through a whale’s baleen, or a beetle’s gullet. He can even rise
through a stalk of grass with the upward pull of phloem
in these first green days of spring. He has no use, now, for the soft
black hair through which I would run a slender comb,
nor for his oddly shaped thumbs. Nor anything in this world.
Though the things of the world may have use of him,
his molecules filtering through them --- carbon, oxygen, nitrogen,
a whisper of hydrogen --- the modest building blocks of life,
quietly, and without announcement.
12X9" (includes black wood frame, 14x11" SOLD
This piece was inspired by a poem by Danusha Laméris, from her book of poems, Bonfire Opera. Shared here with the author's permission.
WORKING IN THE GARDEN, I THINK OF MY SON
Who is nothing, now, but a few fistfuls of ash. Not even that, since ash
dissolves and is taken into the bodies of plants, or swept into the air
on the wind. He’s so very fine he slips undetected
through a whale’s baleen, or a beetle’s gullet. He can even rise
through a stalk of grass with the upward pull of phloem
in these first green days of spring. He has no use, now, for the soft
black hair through which I would run a slender comb,
nor for his oddly shaped thumbs. Nor anything in this world.
Though the things of the world may have use of him,
his molecules filtering through them --- carbon, oxygen, nitrogen,
a whisper of hydrogen --- the modest building blocks of life,
quietly, and without announcement.
12X9" (includes black wood frame, 14x11" SOLD
This piece was inspired by a poem by Danusha Laméris, from her book of poems, Bonfire Opera. Shared here with the author's permission.
WORKING IN THE GARDEN, I THINK OF MY SON
Who is nothing, now, but a few fistfuls of ash. Not even that, since ash
dissolves and is taken into the bodies of plants, or swept into the air
on the wind. He’s so very fine he slips undetected
through a whale’s baleen, or a beetle’s gullet. He can even rise
through a stalk of grass with the upward pull of phloem
in these first green days of spring. He has no use, now, for the soft
black hair through which I would run a slender comb,
nor for his oddly shaped thumbs. Nor anything in this world.
Though the things of the world may have use of him,
his molecules filtering through them --- carbon, oxygen, nitrogen,
a whisper of hydrogen --- the modest building blocks of life,
quietly, and without announcement.