The Lucky Ones

by Jill Bialosky

Jill Bialosky

Our labor realized in the crowns
of marigolds, blue eyes of the hydrangeas,
smell of lavender and late bloom of the hosta’s
erect purple flower with its marvel of thick
green leaves. In our twilight
every year we trimmed back and the garden grew
more lustrous and untamable as if the eternal woods
and animals asleep at night in its beds were claiming it back.
The water in the pool shimmered an icy Tuscan blue.

When we arrived we swam
until the stress from the grueling
life in the city released our bodies. Later
we sat under the umbrella and watched a garter snake
slip into the water, careful not to startle
its flight-or-fight response. Its barbed-wire
coil. Comet of danger, serpent of the water,
how long we had thwarted the venom of its secret
lures and seductions.
It swam by arching then releasing
its slithery mercurial form.
Through the lanky trees
we heard the excited cries
of the neighbor’s children—ours, the boy in our late youth,
of our happiness and our struggles, the boy who made us whole
and broken, was in his room perhaps dreaming
of a girl and sleeping the long, tangled sleep of a teenager.

It was a miracle, our ignorance. It was grace
incarnate, how we never knew.

2015, The Players

Last updated July 26, 2022