Under the Saman Tree and Other Poems
by Rosa Gilbert
UNDER THE SAMAN TREE
Thus says the Lord God: “I myself will take a sprig from the lofty top of the cedar and will set it out. I will break off from the topmost of its young twigs a tender one, and I myself will plant it on a high and lofty mountain. On the mountain height of Israel will I plant it, that it may bear branches and produce fruit and become a noble cedar. And under it will dwell every kind of bird; in the shade of its branches birds of every sort will nest. –Ezequiel 17:22-23
I sit under the Samán tree,
as I usually do when the evenings are cool
in the sweltering heat of the tropics.
I watch as branches like outstretched arms
drop down
toward me, a holy covering
of leaves, as if bowing to kiss
my tired forehead, caress
a worn-out heart. Beneath this shade
I rest
as birds float, dance, soar.
They find comfort here, too.
Who knew this canopy
could sprout from the smallest sprig?
A tree
so wide that every creature of the air,
has flocked to nest and dwell.
From every corner they come,
from every tribe and tongue—
so have I.
We find repose together
among these weeping branches
for we are all acquainted
with the Man of Sorrows.
Here,
my soul is home. Here
it breathes and learns
to sabbath. Here, under
an almighty shadow.
PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN RETURNING FROM EXILE
Where is the desert? Where is the weariness
in my bones? Where is the parched land,
the exile roads? Where is the heat, the sand,
the water–filled stones?
I strike and strike and strike,
but there is no need. A sea
of living water flows straight
through my lips. My thirst quenched.
My hunger (the ache) for a taste
of goodness. For a morsel of bread.
Satisfied. Satiated. You have fed
me from your feast.
I sit at the table and eat.
It’s no longer a dream. You have led
me back to the Garden.
De vuelta al Jardín.
And it looks different, so different,
from what I ever thought it would.
But it feels the same (exactamente igual)—
like coming home.
MISCARRIAGE
Off to the right side of the garden, surrounded
by the finely mowed grass, a flowerbed like an island.
Oasis of beauty.
Unnamed daylilies
(and what’s in a name, anyway?)
dressed in wrinkled, purple petals.
Then a bulb of yellow
at the center. A pleasant landing
for matching bumblebees to feast.
But from inside the house,
(as life wastes away
within me) I lay on the couch
and my weary eyes squint
to catch a glimpse
through the four-cornered window.
I don’t know what to call you, yet (but what’s in a name,
anyway?) and no matter how hard these eyes try,
they won’t see you.
But my mothering bones know
who you are—radiant life. A beautiful stem
robbed of its blooms for dress.
And on this distant flowerbed,
I find a good place
to let you rest.
ROSA GILBERT
Rosa Gilbert is a publishing assistant at Calla Press Publishing, LLC. Born and raised in the Dominican Republic, Spanish is her first language, but it was through learning English that she fell in love with words. Her work has been published with Ekstasis, Clayjar Review, Prosetrics Literary Magazine, among others. She lives in Ohio with her husband and daughter. Her debut poetry collection comes out with The Way Back Books later this year. You can find her writing at https://rosagilbert.substack.com/ and @rosagilbertpoetry.