Spinster goes to market

[searingedrock]

Aunty Selma never had children
she lived in Petit Valley in a great big house,
with a beautiful garden.
Her parents left her the house after death
I have visions of her, barefoot,
peeling the skins of starch mangoes from the tree
or julie, she had those too
with no company but the screeches
of wild birds
on the kitchen counter her market bag of provisions
and fruit and vegetables
her hands grasping the ripeness of a tomato
bright purple of a melongene, turgid tubers
her hands work over them,
she delights in their simpleness, their life-fulness
and I think, perhaps, being a spinster
(birds calling outside, wind blows in smelling of
fresh cut grass,
sky blazing blue in island sunshine)
is not so bad after all.