Photo journalist — The garden in winter — The violets

Photo journalist

Like patio umbrellas our green tomatoes shade
these babies, six bunnies dressed in furry snowsuits.
God tells a joke in July and quickly, you must run
for your camera. It’s just this way living out of town,
wanting a mess of fried green tomatoes for supper
(your grown daughter’s favorite). Remember when
her small feet found those bees? And now, you stumble
on a new family moved into your garden overnight,
their mother’s gone to market after hours of labor,
her sweeping out years of someone else’s dirt,
assigning beds inside the bunker,
and it’s hard work getting six kids
down for a nap. She’s earned her cup of coffee,
her sweet moment of rest after unloading all these boxes.
But see how the curtains fold back, and she’s propped
her kitchen door wide? Kneeling, peeping through leaves,
pressing your face against the nursery window,
you feel like a hospital cleaning lady.
Soon, day turn nurses will return from lunch,
and isn’t it a little like sin to photograph newborns?
Faces down, butts stuck high in the air, they cuddle together
struggle to stay warm. Don’t be such a wuss,
you tell yourself, this is not to sell—not even one copy—
no profit here, but today, maybe God wants you to understand
juxtaposition. He asks you to show a moving story,
not the one about a bush burning, something easier,
a parable about hunger and blindness,
how any life we find can make us full.

The garden in winter

Row upon row
snow waves

cover our garden.
In stiff trousers

the maple’s shadow
walks his old dog.

Faint smell
of pipe tobacco

drifts behind them.
From his left pocket,

the man lifts a boy
like a timepiece, engraved

something rare and precious,
a leaf’s hand pressed in stone.

Shoveling nine steps,
I watch the puppet show.

With great effort
a twisted branch gets thrown,

the lab
makes a clumsy plunge.

In cold white sand
the boy runs, then whistles

to his friend.
Come back, come back

you’re out too far;
(my toy heart lunges, gulps)

and I’m too winded to swim.

The violets

Across our living room,
they greet each other
wave their arms,
good women, these neighbors
who seldom visit, never carry tales.
Sunday afternoon,
buttoned sleeves rolled up
their green blouses pressed, long gray hair
twisted back, pinned in buns,
these Pentecostal sisters
come together,
bring bouquets
their small fists full of purple flowers
their heads bowed down.
This morning,
one of their young sisters passed.
Today, they will not be baptized in light
nor will they speak in tongues.