Thread: Rite of Passage

Linda kneels among the flowers, weeding, pruning
her garden by the walkway.
Having done this three decades,
will do this one more,
a rite of passage into summer.


Sullen thunder in the distance,
Linda kneels among the flowers.
The wind dries sweat cold upon her back,
her thoughts her own,
of hibiscus in '69
and hemlines in '84.


Time, the force majeure.


She free falls from one day to the next,
microwaving dinner most evenings,
congratulating herself for having cable.

Kneeling there,

in her garden by the walkway,
Linda,
among the flowers.

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For the most part, my poetry is a private thing, and be thankful I keep it that way. However, the poem above is one I let out for walks now and again, if only because I allowed it to be published about 20 years ago in a scam poetry publication. I mean, the puppy is out of the kennel on this one, so why not let it raise a leg here? Thanks for your understanding.


Linda is my name for the girls of my generation. In my time, I personally fell in love with three Lindas, and swore undying love to each of them.

I enjoyed this one wurdguy, thanks for sharing it. My only nit is, my mind kept added a comma after flowers in the first line.

Until yesterday, the poem was without much punctuation to speak of. Please note, I inserted a comma after "flowers", and it seems to work. Thanks for your kind words and the comma suggestion.

This morning, as it happened, I made a joke on FaceBook about reinventing myself for the day as an international war criminal. Someone asked what advantage would that be, and I replied I could wear an ascot. One of the Lindas from my past surfaced long enough to point out that I wore ascots my sophomore year in college. I had forgotten the ascot, but not her.

And by the way, all my Lindas went on to do well for themselves. Whether or not any of them are doing any gardening, no one has mentioned that. Not to me.

I could see you (in your avatar) wearing an ascot. Linda is a lovely name and I'm sure all your Linda's were, too.

I had a picture of one woman doing her flowers every year, marking another year of her life by the coming of each summer.

She is marking another year of her life, but she's not altogether conscious of doing that, gardening is simply something she does. We see her at that one point in the stream of time that is Now, yet we also know (by my good graces as narrator) that in one more decade her labors will cease. Her beauty and her life are as temporary as those of the flowers she tends.

Wurdguy, you bring out most subtly that, wherever we are, we're also somewhere else - in our thoughts, at least. For this reason I think that the phrase "Time, the force majeure" (though an apposite one), slapped into the middle, jars somewhat. The poem stands on its own, and superbly, without it. I suppose it's that "show, don't tell" thing again.

The reference to time was dropped into the poem to confer a sense of gravitas upon a mundane scene, and to emphasize the fact Linda is so very temporary. You didn't bring the subject up, but I'd be the first to admit, "Time, the force majeure" borders on being a cliche'. That said, the use of a cliche' isn't necessarily bad -- sometimes a cliche' can be a handy way of conveying meaning quickly. We read along in the rhythm of the piece, then, as you noted, there's an abrupt change. But I did it for the reasons stated.

I appreciate the effort you put into your critique, Mr. A. I'm feeling kinda chuffed you even noticed my poem. Thanks.

This had me smiling from the start. I like the imagery and the 3rd person style. They seem to compliment one another, keeping the truths found in it universally accessible, but at the same time humbly bound to your experience of domestic life.