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Jenny Bornholdtonline works |
It was a year of great sadness in the garden. A sister died. Our friends’ wounded marriage. A sick child. Another sister died and they wrapped her in cloth and we laid her in the ground. Rest we hoped for. For the comfort of a surface soft as paint mixed with beeswax. We hoped at least the animals would remain, but all the little dogs in the street ran away from home – an airedale terrier called Lucy ending up in a café in town. Helpless in the face of sick animals, we wept over a hedgehog, held the hunched body of our sleeping child close. Solace came in small ways – dealing kindly with bees in the kitchen, the sidestepping of a moth across a night window. The child said here I’ll put my arms around you so you don’t get lost. After time a vase entered our lives as a body of light its white flowers a kind of peace we craved and entered as the gate to another garden on a hillside, tended by women who looked up from roses to mountains and saw snow bloom there From These Days (VUP, 2000) © Jenny Bornholdt |
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