Thursday, August 28, 2014

Blueprints (Davina)

I've got seeds in my pocket,
a tape measure in my hands,
and plans rolled up tight on tracing paper
in my backpackall these for when 
I end up where I'm headed, and it comes 
the time to build.

In the land that will be mine,
I'll first find where the little creek flows, and
plant the maple with the crooked branch 
that leans over the water, for fishing.
Then, the old oak with its plastic red swing
and the big mango tree, for climbing,
and tall hemlocks next to wide-limbed spruces,
for the children to hide beneath and play. 

I'm bringing my sister's quiet street
to settle around the house, a long loop
wide enough for four to walk side-by-side,
barefoot on greying asphalt still leaking 
the sun's warmth in late afternoon.
I'll make a garden, too, filled up with 
vegetables and flowers alike, and
bordered by my mother's old butterfly bushes.
She and I will sit out there in summer,
reading the books she never 
found the time to read, and with new eyes
she'll laugh at fine print with me.

Inside the house there will be a special closet, 
for memories that only need remembering 
once in a while. 
My father's father will keep 
his wheelchair in this closet, while he plays 
Chinese shuttlecock out in the courtyard,
and my friends will leave
their hospital gowns—faded, worn,
smelling faintly of death—
folded neatly on the shadowed shelves. 

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