Michael E. Stone: In a Bower

Poets once wrote

about bowers.

I don't believe

we ever sat in one

except in Armenia

at the foot of Mt. Aragatz.

That bower needed a coat of paint,

but there vines twined overhead

in the midst of

a half dried up orchard

at the tail end of summer

of our visit

We ate there.

The food was fresh,

and we drank Armenian beer.

A time of ending

that included

a starched cloth,

a gleaming white canvas for

a feast of colours —

eggplant purple

salad green and red

white cheese and

watermelon's sweet heart,

That summer ended

in that bower.

Summer 2015