Still with the wounds that come with age
(and I’ve had my share)
Years of discovery and recoveries
Of digging and pealing at the truth
To get to the core, the heart,
My own Nitty Gritty
Years with my hands in the dirt
Scuffing and chipping my
Nails to behold the tuber
That started it all
I haven’t seen her for a while
My Nitty Gritty
I wonder, is she near, is she close?
Is she in something I do
Or make?
In a painting, a collage, a drawing
Of a wavy headed girl,
In a poem I am writing?
In something I wear
That takes flight?
Like my Mexican twirl skirt,
A patchwork of colors, bold and muted
With ancient Aztec and modern designs?
Is she in the kitchen, in the fruit
That I sliced and put in a
Bowl to eat now or later
With crumbly cheese?
In the apples
Simmering in a pot with cinnamon
And cardamom?
Is she outside
Wrapped in a tea towel
And left by the door?
What could be easier?
I’m always here
Opening and closing cupboards and doors,
Sweeping and fixing,
Hammering nails
Watering and wiping
Metal and glass
Back in the kitchen I sift flour with baking
Soda and salt
Whisk butter and sugar,
Eggs and vanilla,
Folding the wet with the dry
Kneading the dough
Still wondering -
Is she hiding under the sink?
Among old plant containers and worn out
Sponges, jars with lethal
Smelling Substances
Things you don’t want to touch
Or get into your eyes
With left over dirt
Like the stoic cat in a Repetitive dream
That hasn’t been fed or Brushed in years
But continues to live in spite of neglect
Am I the cat?
Am I the Nitty Gritty?
Am I the tuber?
Am I my thoughts? And wonderings?
Tired and spent
I rest to still my mind
Awakening to the fragrance of baking dough
I smile, forgetting my Nitty Gritty
I walk outside and squat in the Garden
Giving the half eaten pear on the cutting board,
Its flesh turned brown,
A new home on the compost heap
#culture
