Returning From The North Poem by Linda Hepner

Returning from the north, and finding August still ablaze
ending the hot and heedless summer,
the Orchid tree so lately in its princess majesty
has left two purple blossoms on its branches,
but down upon the ground lie all its pods,
its brown and withered worshippers,
scattered like slaughtered serfs upon the lawn.
A rustle, and a rain of more
come falling through the branches, crackling
like old men’s bones. They waited all the month
to show me how they fell, their brothers having died
upon the twigs and left without them. This is what
has happened in my absence. No point in mourning;
the time had come, the message pierced the pods
and they obeyed, into this world and out.

The dessicated pods were open on the lawn,
their contents vanished. So it seemed. And yet
between the grasses,
searching for the soil, there lay, so innocently,
the little seeds, like ears
of tiny humans yearning for their birth. I picked up one, then two
and more until my hand was full, and wondered, should I keep them safe?
Give them like pearls to people who may treasure them or lose
them carelessly, perhaps? Did I have room
within my garden, flourishing with flowers,
to plant a forest, heart-shaped leaves
and purple flowers so the trees might flourish?
Death’s a marvel:
in its very dying it gives birth. We, the parents, must move on.
But I a mother, carer, should I take
the place of God the Gardener, or let God
watch over them and take His time?

Time is the pod that shelters us, we seeds
created by our universe, that grey, neglected womb,
and in our turn
we are our garden, mirror of the universe, and from us come
seeds shaped like the ears of babies. Listen!
It’s the Fall!

LRH
8.27.09