EMILE HOFSTEDE

 

The Glass House

 
i.
 
It’s still warm from the day,
the seedbed, light and moist.
 
Leafy greens are best
sown during a waxing moon
roots during a wane
even better 
seeded 
at night,
like tonight, 
in a faint
glow.
 
The fingers know
the shape of seeds, 
the necessary depth
of planting
and how to envelop
everything
in readiness.
 
 
ii.
 
At forty-five there is still time.
 
Systems are functioning
 
although
there is a rumour
 
things may not be 
all go.
 
 
iii.
 
Frost’s first kiss
lies upon the ground.
 
Brassicas and spinach may still be planted —
 
these seedlings already hardened outside
for days and nights to come.
 
More important, garlic.
 
Ready the beds 
for the longest night
 
choose the largest
healthiest 
cloves
from last year’s harvest
(crush the remainder into virgin olive oil or compost)
 
gently rub the papery skin
to liberate a bare bulb
 
hold tip upwards
insert to depth
no more than twice the bulb length
 
cover with compost then pea straw 
for nourishment, water retention, weed suppression
 
continue:
feed
water
weed
 
until the shortest night
 
 
iv.
Her body has changed shape —
carries weight and water.
 
Her face has a decoration of unevenness.
 
These nights, and sometimes days
the bed she sleeps in 
presses back
 
and there are unforgiven aches.
 
Finally, the mattress 
needs to be
replaced.
 
 
v.
 
Cloches ease transition
through these days of early winter.
 
The glasshouse
brittles with age.
 
Surfaces are etched.
 
There is a fungus
that cannot be 
washed out
in spite of days
spent scrubbing.
 
 
vi.
 
The heart. The mind. 
This ready pair.
Something is always missing.
 
A matter of the senses. 
A matter of connection.
 
Seductive.
             Isolation.
 
There is the matter of fate.
 
There is an inability
to convey 
se paraten ess.
 
 
vii.
 
The nursery lights
shut off
automatically.
 
There is nothing to see 
at night and light 
can only give so much.
 
Days shorten without notice.
 
Still the bed lies prepared 
and the cup of the moon
holds a smile.
 
 
viii.
 
Through winter’s dark
the plantings grow
in the ground
around her.
 
Nourished.
 
Spoken to.
 
 
ix.
 
She bleeds
with the moon. 
 
Meanwhile the quick of her thins,
and what she grows
no longer sustains her.
 
Soon she will be transparent
 
and on some unexpected
cold night 
in spring
 
like a glasshouse
of unseeded beds
 
she will shatter.
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emile Hofstede was born in Ontario, Canada to post-war Dutch immigrants in 1964.  She obtained an MSC in Ecology and a BA in Education and worked in both fields before leaving home to experience more of the world.  One day she landed in Golden Bay and has not left yet.  Her time there has been significantly marked by seasonal homesickness, life in an intentional community, and the death of her partner from cancer.  She is nonetheless, a contented resident of New Zealand.  This year she completed the MA in Creative Writing at the IIML.

 

Return to 2009 contents >