Wednesday, July 13, 2016

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

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