Parkinson’s
I'm reading Proust again. These shifting and confusing
gusts of memory, he wrote, never lasted more than a few seconds.
When Proust’s gusts subside, they’re replaced
by regret and longing and a memory-soaked stillness.
I set his book aside: forty years I’d lived here — how
could I leave such a place? Signs of late-summer:
swamp roses looming, the ponds barely a ripple
among the towering hemlocks. And the kitchen garden.
Herbs and spices, they were your darlings, but finally
you couldn’t make it across the garden to the window box
to plant them without falling. I found you a last time
down in the grass in a rage for me picking you up.
The oregano and sage exude an acrid sweetness.
You’d have loved them.
TONY WHEDON has published three volumes of poetry, three poetry chapbooks, and two award-winning essay collections from Green Writers, Main Street Rag, and Mid-List presses. Read more.