by Carlene Gadapee
Quietude is not the same thing as quiet.
My hydrangea is white.
Disease scavenges the body, but stress
strips the soul, brings it right to the whitened
spiritual bone. Is quietus, not like death,
My feet rest on the floor.
A whelm of emotion hardly kept in check
brings a rictus, a ringing, a shortness
My dog sleeps in the sunspot on the rug.
This supercharged stillness, is an ion-rich
atmosphere, a gray-green flatness preceding
strong weather. I want to be requited, acquitted,
or is that just quitting?
My coffee is dark in my white cup.
Shoots and tubers force forth, crumble dirt,
shoulder their way upward and outward:
growth or replacement?
I hear a lawnmower in the neighborhood.
Yellow-green paleness reminds me of death, but not
decay. Something needs light, needs air.
Carlene M. Gadapee teaches English in northern New Hampshire, and she is the Associate Creative Director and Education Consultant for The Frost Place. Her work has been published in Think, Smoky Quartz, English Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in Littleton with her husband, a bossy chi-pin dog, and two beehives.