Still as an Eggplant They Left Me Home, 2013

It is still
still as an eggplant they left me home
and one katydid sings and Saint said her poem about
bursting blooms all over and they
and the drawing group will be here soon
and I can’t clean up. It’s enough to drink coconut water and eat
half a dozen raw soaked almonds and an avocado
and get sleepy and not worry that some people think it’s lonely
in a cabin at the end of a long
dirt and rocky road in Vermont
and it is so quiet. The cabin makes its own sounds
randomly. It’s been raining and the cabin wood creaks and
moves and nothing has to be done. The pond holds nothing
has to be done while it moves wherever it is going - spiders, minnows, leaves
turning yellow, water ripples and loons. At this moment my seven year old grand
daughter will be staring admiringly at her cousin my other grand daughter who is in the
prime of her seventeen years as they all go off to see which college suits the seventeen
year old. They left me at home. It is still still and I and the rain and my coconut water are
okay