The Grapevine Art Salon
Barbara Knott
host of the Salon, has a short story forthcoming in The Distillery: Artistic Spirits of the South. She is a member of Zona Rosa, a writing group mentored by Rosemary Daniell, and of the Midtown Writers group. Her first novel Muscadine (in manuscript) was a finalist in the James Jones First Novel Fellowship competition. She is presently writing a novel about Atlanta called The Art of Lying Down.Boxwood
All that is left of Granny Motes
besides memory and her graveyard bones
is one of two boxwoods she planted
sixty years ago in front of a porch
where I, a child sitting on the plank steps,
learned the rock-and-spit cadence that
sometimes, in the forward motion,
sent a stream of tobacco juice
past my ear onto the ground.
besides memory and her graveyard bones
is one of two boxwoods she planted
sixty years ago in front of a porch
where I, a child sitting on the plank steps,
learned the rock-and-spit cadence that
sometimes, in the forward motion,
sent a stream of tobacco juice
past my ear onto the ground.
Neglected for forty-five years
the hardstemmed evergreen bush stood
stubborn while house collapsed
outbuildings decayed
gardens returned to riot.
Unpruned shoots became old growth.
the hardstemmed evergreen bush stood
stubborn while house collapsed
outbuildings decayed
gardens returned to riot.
Unpruned shoots became old growth.
The solitary shrub takes me back
to her sanctuary of pendulum clock
and featherbed, of quilting frame
and wood stove, teacakes, apple cakes
and a small brown crockery vase
that sits now near the clock
in my own safe place.
to her sanctuary of pendulum clock
and featherbed, of quilting frame
and wood stove, teacakes, apple cakes
and a small brown crockery vase
that sits now near the clock
in my own safe place.
On the porch when I was young
she let me try her snuff and laughed
like a local Baba Yaga
though not unkindly
when I threw up on the ground beside
that same boxwood bush.
she let me try her snuff and laughed
like a local Baba Yaga
though not unkindly
when I threw up on the ground beside
that same boxwood bush.
In the back yard
were washpots; a woodpile stood
next to the outhouse. Zinnia
beds thrived on compost tea
that seeped, when the rains came,
to all the roots, including mine.
were washpots; a woodpile stood
next to the outhouse. Zinnia
beds thrived on compost tea
that seeped, when the rains came,
to all the roots, including mine.
I was long occupied
with her burial.
In dreams
I dislodged her dead body
from roadside slabs of stone
and carried her back
to the decaying house
the watery gardens
the boxwoods that marked
her place on earth
with her burial.
In dreams
I dislodged her dead body
from roadside slabs of stone
and carried her back
to the decaying house
the watery gardens
the boxwoods that marked
her place on earth
and my first hints
that a carefully pruned life lacks
what the ragged boxwood shows:
some things need to grow
sometimes unchecked.
Grim attention to the tidy turning out
of wildering bush or child
prevents those long and shaggy thoughts
that shape the soul.
that a carefully pruned life lacks
what the ragged boxwood shows:
some things need to grow
sometimes unchecked.
Grim attention to the tidy turning out
of wildering bush or child
prevents those long and shaggy thoughts
that shape the soul.
