rustic ceremony

communion with the earth offers no gloves

the father of the mother knows his place

study the man and notice what he does

outside the light of any smiling face

he clarifies his three piece suit to two

leaving the jacket sitting on a chair

and walks through grass in fine Italian shoes

investigates the fruit trees that yet bear

and places golden apples (i count eight)

into the background of the celebration

the rustic ceremony of his fate

born in an orchard in another nation

and thus the child is blessed beyond her knowing

the weight of golden orbs already growing

(This sonnet is for my Grandpa Joe. Grandpa Joe is a shadowy figure in my memory. A quiet person who spoke in proverbs. A person who, even when he was present, wasn’t necessarily social. It makes sense then, that I learn more about my Grandpa Joe studying the background of pictures of other people the day of my christening than I do from the picture of us together, his face obscured by the shadows of the trees. It turns out, that while other people were posing and smiling, my maternal grandfather, born on a citrus farm in rural Jamaica, performed his own ceremony: harvesting fruit from the wild apple trees in the yard. In this poem I imagine that moment, the ancestral presence he made space for by turning to a practice that may have felt more resonant for him than standing and talking with people. And for all the tiny ceremonies that we do or do not notice. And for all the necessary work happening right now that sustains me, though it may be in the background almost beyond recognition. I see you. I love you. I thank you.)