My white-haired mother pulls out roots

from her yellowed autumn garden

dried limp tomato plants caught

in prickly cucumber vines.

She has weeded thru out the long

demon summer


night dryness and battled

onslaught of attacking insects.

Her harvest is now in jars

bright-coloured fruit of her vigilance

all in a row

on a straight shelf

greens yellows and reds

pickled and dead.

I visit on Sunday afternoon

talk of past harvests


my children her jars,

I show her photographs

blood seed of her garden I

feel the fibrous strength of her roots

only while seeding my own,

children all harvested


body lies fallow

white womb shell

life yellowed

cracked swollen

autumn soil

flesh loose and sandy

over tilled

over fed,

carbon backing shows thru

fist-shaped blueness

chalked under my eyes

charcoal eraser marks

blur contours of my face


mother’s oneness.

McRites Press                                                                           ©Murielle Cyr 2012

About Murielle Cyr

Writer, organic gardener, soapmaker, listener.
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