“A Poet’s Home” and “What are you doing this evening?”
By Joan Mazza
A Poet’s Home
Oak floorboards speckled with leaf litter
empty rooms echo with each step,
wait for books, furniture, art.
Walking on this wooded property,
acorns fall amid downed twigs, branches
from yesterday’s downpour.
Cows bellow from the nearby field,
obscured by foliage. In my mailbox,
I place two envelopes, raise the red flag.
On the pond behind my house,
skeletons of lotus flowers
droop over their mats. At my approach,
frogs squeak, like dog toys, jump
into the water. Whiskered fish congregate
in my shadow under the deck.
I moved here to dive into poetry.
I will buy a red wheelbarrow,
maybe some white chickens.
What are you doing this evening?
All day out, after class, a hundred miles of driving,
down my long gravel drive from my not-busy road,
I return to my lair, haven, shelter, and sanctuary
where I work on translations of fabric quilt blocks
into folded paper over Bristol for greeting cards
to sick and mourning friends. I don’t need
a retreat or vacation, don’t wish for a cabin
in the woods when I live alone, close to nature
with a view of the pond from my office window.
My freezer full of homemade foods is enough
for three months of writing and art, no pots
or preparation needed. I make coffee, take care
of two cats who go back to bed while I write
and cogitate, untangle my memories with the point
of a pen and a spiral notebook. With history’s heat,
I render the past into molten rock, roast soggy
family legends into crisp and crunchy truths.
No one here to interrupt or demand my silence.
Joan Mazza worked as a microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self. Her poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, Prairie Schooner, The Comstock Review, Poet Lore, Hare’s Paw, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.
