Keeping Time

 

The sunflower head stands on tall, towering stalk,

Stored up seeds like arrows for shooting

Into the future, releasing grasp on time

Letting go of time stored up, letting go of now.

Sunflowers wilting on brown stalks, 

bachelor buttons still brilliant blue with promise like eyes 

That play football, two-a-days this Fall;

Marigolds still sticking up, like lighters holding vigil, orange flames. 

Tomato vines have given their last, 

green arms no longer heavy laden. 

Leaves are browning like pages hard to turn,

Outgrown their cages, a mess like unkempt hair, full of tangles. 

The garden keeps time, a different watch than mine,

The soil nourishing change, slow, a steady rhythm

The plants tell time, heard it from the clouds, the sun, the rain. 

They pass on a certain rumor I’ve heard that all kids grow up someday. 

Garden Lessons: A Poem

I came to the garden to listen

to the wisdom of the plants:

their silence deeply rooted,

well-nourished in patience and sun. 

I came to feel the margins

to sit in the empty spaces

to learn to wait, content,

and hopeful for tomorrow. 

But I never leave empty-handed,

my teacher giving last lectures

in basil blossoms (soft white, hungry petals)

and last minute advice in tomato stem scent. 

To learn the lessons of the garden

I must come daily on quiet feet

with a spirit full or empty, it doesn't matter,

but supple and always leaning in. 

Moonflower (Ipomoea alba): A Poem

White moonflower, silver, spectral

garden ghost, tendrils curling

intertwining wooden post:

I hear you calling, lilting lulling. 

Une cloche blanche, keeping time

my time in moon phase and stargaze

and lightning bugs' pulsing rays, 

and your time whispered, aglow. 

Like untwisting pearlescent sheets of lightest silk,

with dewy, heavy floral scent 

on green twirling stems, I abide by your bell.

I come and listen to midnight stories only you can tell. 

Not This, The Other

 

The sun I saw

was not the pale light, fresh,

of this November.

But the gold-bronze rays

of my childhood 

spilled down church sanctuary aisles

between two rows of pews

and stained glass windows

pointed in tall triangles, prescient,

to a yellowing carpet,

not yet old but aging,

slipping through my fingers

like my childhood. I see

the warm-blooded smiles 

of my grandparents

and the sound of laughter

and hymns played on banjos,

my palms pressed together 

in prayer and joy

and love; 

it was that sun. 

Joy is in the Bones

 

Hard and empurpled, not cold but warm

like amethyst,

won from centuries of being.

Joy is there, in the bones.

The bones are in the earth. 

And on the earth, still walking, still waking. 

The earth encapsulates, a living sepulcher, 

Breathing through roots,

shooting up into sky and sun and rain;

Teasing up the clouds, the vines twirl their fingers;

the oaks shake with laughter;

the house finches twitter with song and story. 

Joy is there in the bones, 

like a man's scent rich with cigar smoke

and leather and soap and labor and daily cares. 

Or the child's hair freshly tossed by wind,

the fingers of grass having run through it,

the dirt having tussled and combed it, with love. 

Joy is in the scent of homemade soup,

the simmered potatoes and celery, carried on the wind

next door, over the wisteria-trellised wooden fence. 

Joy is in the old book, the old quilt, freshly laundered,

warmed by sun, as the shadows stretch longer,

the chipped tea cup of roses, the hum of everydayness. 

Joy is in the tears, the wistful sadness, the questions,

underneath the fears like an aquifer, thrumming with hope. 

Joy is in the years, the web of moments, stretched thin,

stretched strong, reinforced with love and beauty;

Joy is life reinforced with triumph and remembrance, 

and the constancy of the mature oak, who gracefully weathers ice 

and wind and the tumult of election cycles, shedding regret and acorns.

Joy is there, and it's here, right here. It's so close you can't miss it-

Don't miss it! 

For joy has always been here for the taking. 

Joy is here, now. Joy is in the bones. 

Nasturtium Novice

 Small garden, slow growth, late bloom…

I rest on promises of rich soil,

Touching tender nasturtium leaves,

Longing for ghost blooms,

Haunted by familiar regrets

Like leaf-miners eating away at resolve.

I push back my leaf shields, 

Lift up naive eagerness to see

If underneath, in shade I may find

Tenacity nurtured, and tested and strong.

I build fences for fortitude

And try to resist the winds of weather shifting,

I shift my own footing, trying for nimbleness

Though often wilting, and think that I,

Like my dog, smell rain in the wind.

Gardening is hard going,

And for all my farming ancestors,

I remind myself that I’m just learning

On sharp chicken wire curves;

On bamboo sticks and twine, I’m just leaning,

Bending myself into submission and humility,

Fussing over tender shoots and pulling weeds.

Voice of My People

 

There is a cadence, and a sound,

the shaping and movement of her lips

that evokes the memory of pecans

on long stretches, a grove, 

and the scent of manure, and dirt,

the shuffling of dominoes 

and laughter. 

In Ada, they say, 

all the secrets whispered on the wind

are exculpatory and brittle,

hidden on serpentine paths,

dirt roads where policemen park

and talk about elections and little league

while sipping iced tea and submission.