Adjure

Grace Marie Grafton

                              related to the law
                              to command solemnly

How does one decide what to put into one’s personal book of rules? And when to set it aside or on a very high shelf while one spends the mild June day moving the delphinium further away from the burgeoning poplars and into the sun? Then perhaps moving the foxglove deeper into the shade of the bay trees, nearer the pool. That word, perhaps, not really in the book of rules nor doubt nor slipshod nor casual. What about laugh? During the dinner party this evening the sun, so near solstice, slants heavy honey across the lawn where the diners sit at the long, slightly tilted table and get tipsy on gin, lemonade and the way the breeze, in cahoots with late light, lifts a few plum tree leaves overhead, then lets them fall. It’s like music and no one needs to leave early, someone decides to dance across the lawn, no one says, “Don’t quit your day job, better sit down and sober up before you make a fool of yourself.” Everyone’s a fool here and they laugh and laugh and laugh when the hostess says she’s been composing her life’s Book of Rules.             





 

Grace Marie Grafton, is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Jester from Hip Pocket Press. Her poems have won honors from Bellingham Review, Keats' Soul Making contest, Sycamore Review, and twice been nominated for Pushcart Prize. Recent poems appear in basalt, Sin Fronteras, Peacock Journal and Ambush Review among others.

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