Poetry by Regina Berg
The roses near the house have bloomed
and bloomed again.
The tomato vines are lush, laden
with fruit, sun-warm, red, taut with sweetness
and crisp green globes you will slice
thin, cornmeal coat, fry golden
and wrap in a fold of white bread.
The collard greens and cabbages are full grown,
though you will leave them to tender
with the first frost. Cucumbers secret themselves
on the other side of the neighbor’s chain link fence
until your quick eye guides me.
Your eyes and ears are the only things quick about you now.
Cancer and age have leached your bones.
We sit on the small concrete patio where the sun rests
on your thin shoulders and a wind warm
as the remembrance of a Mississippi spring
soothes knuckles swollen with years and labor.
Silvered hair scraped into a single braid and pinned
at your neck, you lean close and laughingly gossip
about the young man who bought the derelict
house next door, though you call hello and wish him well.
You won’t come out here on your own, even
with your cane, you are so fearful of snakes.
and truly we may see one sunning itself
against the house once or twice a year.
When we lived in the small jumble of a house
just down the alley, you tended a patch
in a vacant lot hidden by weeds that towered
over your garden stakes.
There were surely snakes, but
you had children to feed and a sharp hoe.
You who made something from nothing
for so long, have a freezer full.
Now your garden runs
a slender path between the fence
and the concrete walk, filling every inch
with food that will feed us still
when you are gone.
Regina Berg is an emerging poet who resides in Chicago, IL. She is GGE (greatest grandma ever!), a baker, crocheter, and sometime traveler. She enjoys solitary writing, retired life, and lively conversations.
