ninebark

1.

Swimming this morning, I stroked toward the ninebark garlanding the logs, coming down over the the hardhack, the scrappy alder. Nine layers of shreddy bark on the stems, the field guide tells me. It tells me Cowichan women made knitting needles from its wood. I tell the tumble of blossoms they are beautiful, that the sunlight just falling down their centre makes them as lovely as summer maidens. Never mind that their genus name means “bladder fruit”. Never mind.

2.

44 years ago I was a bride. Yellow roses in my hair, a dress of gauzy cotton laced over my breasts. There are almost no photographs.

4.

Yesterday, driving alone, I wept for something in the past. Before I was a bride, before I was a mother. I was a daughter but didn’t feel worthy. All along the highway, the thimbleberries were in bloom. The species name means “small-flowered” but it’s a mistake. A basket can be made from the wide leaves to catch the ripe berries that fall easy from the stems.

3.

Garland. Dark hair. Smooth skin. How many layers to find that young woman I see each morning at the bottom of the stairwell? The flowers could almost be jasmine.