Tupelo
Honey
Van
Henderson
My
friend has a white beard and head of hair,
Looks
like a woodsman Santa Claus.
He
sits in the wicker chair on his front porch,
Tells
me he just doesn’t understand poetry.
If
you want to say something about love,
Then
don’t talk about trees blowin’ in the wind,
He
says with a frown of frustration. Just talk about
Love.
He doesn’t understand that his stories,
Told
in his southern baritone, are poetry.
The
one about Tupelo honey, how the bees
Fan
out like soldiers into the Apalachicola
Swamps,
full with white blossoms.
He
says sometimes the honey’s amber color casts a green hue
And
its sweetness will never granulate because it’s so pure.
My
mouth waters as he describes the perfect
Crème
brulee. The biggest mistake, he says,
Is
not enough water in the water bath.
Shield
the custard from the heat like a vegetarian
From
beef. When you’re ready to serve it,
Take
the torch (for him a two syllable word),
Maintain
a slow and even motion, like a mother
Swaying
a baby in her arms, as you harden the sugar.
When
we speak of getting older,
He
points to his hair, little lines outside
His
eyes, the belly over the belt. I say I’d love
To
be like I was twenty years ago. He tells me,
Sometimes
we have to give up what we
Were,
to become who we were meant to be.
And
he says he doesn’t understand poetry.
***
Van
Henderson has studied poetry at Mercer University. She lives
in Macon, Georgia, with her husband and two children.
©
Van Henderson