Ellen Porter
11/27/07
Begonia

True friendship is not
based on fidelity of heart.
The garden blooms, not
because the gardener stands
in open-mouthed awe
but because someone has
taken the muddy hose
and left water in its wake.

So, too, our friendship.

Last evening my begonia
sagged, its leaves soft
and wilted as week-old lettuce.
I was too tired to tend it.
In the night, you offered it water
and this morning its leaves are
crisp, straining toward light.
That, my dear one,
is
utter friendship!


Ellen Porter
10/18/07
expedition to covington

we pack loosely and leave the priory.
we aim the headlamps south;
the road to home narrows behind us.
we are going visiting
like old aunts
to a familiar motherhouse.

the sisters will receive us
as kin (and some of them are)
and we will settle
our rooms, our underwear, our souls.

four days for secret thoughts
the familiarity of matins and vespers
laced with whispering, keeping
tradition, a skeleton
bracing up our windward spirits.

gratitude for daily office and novels
for baseball scores and beer
for wandering the zoo.

But we cannot roam too far.
A few days and we will
pack loosely and travel the widening road home
to matins and vespers
and whispering.


Ellen Porter
10/17/07
inner city fatigue

to trade pot holes
and concrete
for the heron
flying
legs a jet trail
behind the splendid form
of tufted head and
sleek, knowing feathers

do not tell of this
secret trade
i hold it close
behind my eyes
and fear that
with the telling
the bird, the pregnant sky
will vanish
in the knowing.


Ellen Porter
11/07/07
November Snow

No more cobs of corn
the season quietly unfolds;
yesterday wind and snow
decorated the dying sky.


Ellen Porter
9/26/07
September 26

Past the autumnal equinox
my blood pounds through my veins
toward winter.

My sweet summer memories lag
as early morning pulls its chill
up around my crackling window,
the cold barely kept at bay by
lintel and latch.

I close my eyes,
blind to the cold
and remember days ago
running out the door
barefoot,
delighting in the summer softness
of warm air against my skin.

I remember the lime green leaves
of early spring,
the wildflowers,
and the clover grass crouching,
waiting to be mown.

I will be different in autumn
and utterly different in winter.
I will lose my subtle memory
of gentler seasons.

I will blow cold steam
from my fingers
and, hunkered down against
perpetual gray,
I will reach out in vain remembrance
trying to touch the magnificent
petals of spring.


Ellen Porter
10/07/07
The Soul Withers

I have known the ecstasy of love
my life a tapestry
rich as silk, strong woven.

I have lost my heart’s center
longing for the beloved—
rarely mine but always beckoning.

O, I have loved loving
there is no regret,
but never have I lost
one precious;
death has never stolen away
the anchor of my soul.

And so my life is half full.

Without the devastation of grief
the soul withers in delight.


Ellen Porter
10/2/07
Two Days Tired
(after Hafiz)

I am two days tired
and Hafiz lies in bed
counting his toes
and waiting.

I have lost the
gentle stroke of the Beloved’s hand.
She has turned Her
huge and love-soft body away.
I pout and send Her
accusing glances.

Hafiz calls to me;
he is still reclining, unconcerned.

Listen!
The backside of God
is far better than
your bitter arrogance.
So go vomit, clean your lips
and
falling on your knees
kiss her tender thigh.

Then the three of us
will whirl like dervishes.