October 4, 2014

Deborah Stambler

PLATITUDES GROW WITH AGE

There is little left now of the world I knew.
Pale green walls match the tongues
of sage I planted in my first garden.

Salt-licked potatoes hold the pine
and fragrance of sage clipped fresh
from the garden this year.

Leave excuses soft and far behind.
The potatoes are done.
Boiled over in a pot of tears.

Sage is the wisdom
that comes from gardens
and some would say age.

from Rattle #20, Winter 2003