Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Moon Garden

In my moon garden I planted you a sun, last fall, beside the grave of my old dog, near the clothesline where you hang our laundry on warm summer days.  Before the sun sprouted, the children decorated rocks to mark the place where night ended and day began.  Using colored chalk, they drew rainbows that looked like apples—red, yellow, and green apples, deformed but vibrant.

Once the sun began to bloom, we tried to hide it whenever you walked out back with your heavy basket of wet clothes.  We didn’t want you to see the bloom until it had fully flowered.  When we finally picked it, we placed it in an old milk bottle.  Once the stem was submerged in water, all light went out and a hissing fog rose from the thick glass and covered everything.

We couldn’t see, then, so we felt for each other in the shadows, while a thousand moons shot forth from the garden in the backyard beside the grave of my old dog.

         "Moon Garden" appears in the current issue of Apple Valley Review