The usual suspects wilt and die.
Basil, of course, and beans. Potatoes.
Zinnias. Nasturtiums. Marigolds.
I find myself staring at the beet greens,
spinach, and arugula, marveling
at how they thrive, impervious to cold.
I have a craving for resilience.
I pull the dark leaves to my mouth,
devour the green communion.
It tastes like survival, so bitter, so bright.
Posts Tagged ‘frost’
After a Rogue Hard Frost in Late June
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged frost, garden, resilience, spinach on June 25, 2023| 2 Comments »
One in October
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged flower, frost, garden, irony, loss on October 8, 2022| 5 Comments »
knowing frost comes soon,
every flower in the garden
suddenly more precious
Again. Again.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cosmos, death, frost, garden, spring on May 25, 2021| 2 Comments »
Almost every spring, I forget them,
the six packs of cosmos starts on the porch.
All it takes is one cold night,
an innocence of frost.
By dawn, the buds slightly droop.
By noon, the leaves hang darkened and limp.
By the next day, they’re black.
And dead.
It’s a familiar story. How one night
changes everything. How one day
I’m blooming, thriving, alive,
the next all I’d grown is gone.
I used to believe all was lost.
I used to throw the whole plant away.
But I learned what is dead serves as a blanket
to protect whatever still lives.
Wait, and in days, a tiny green filigree
emerges from the base.
In a month or two, it’s a bask of blooms,
no trace of how bleak it was.
Such tender study, the cosmos.
Blame is no part of their process.
They let what’s been lost be of service.
They know they are here to grow.
Because Surrender to What Is Doesn’t Mean Do Nothing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged frost, garden, love, surrender on September 29, 2020| Leave a Comment »
Inside my heart is a gardener.
She knows eventually
all seeds planted in the heart
will die. That doesn’t stop her
from planting. And on a night
when she knows it will frost—
winter, after all, comes soon—
that doesn’t stop her
from rummaging around for blankets
to cover everything in bloom.
You could just let it go,
says some other inner voice.
Nothing lasts forever.
She pauses to listen.
Perhaps all she’ll get is one more week—
one more week of lush and unruly beauty,
one more week of riotous love.
It’s late and she’s tired.
She grabs another blanket.
Damn right, she’ll fight for it.
Forecast
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, frost, garden, time on September 6, 2020| 8 Comments »
In two nights, the killing frost will come.
Because I know this, I wander the garden
and talk to the broccoli, the nasturtiums,
the cilantro. I thank the beets for their willingness
to grow. I tell the onions what is coming.
Tomorrow I will pick enormous bouquets
and fill the house with orange flowers.
Tomorrow I will sit in the garden
and try to store the beauty in my body
though I know it doesn’t work that way.
Please, just one more day, just one more month,
just one more life to try to get it right,
just one more chance to be as attentive
as I am when I know it is almost over,
the basil dark green, the marigolds crinkling with gold.
Dear Frost That Will Crack My Bones,
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, death, frost, love, poem, poetry on July 31, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Think of the frost that will crack our bones eventually
—Tom Hennen, “Love for Other Things”
Before I can love you, I hate you.
Because the frothy pink of the milkweed
and the monarch who travels thousands of miles
just to feed there. Because the dark leaves
of soybeans, millions of green hearts
per acre. Because ripe blueberries
without a hint of pucker. Because
of the touch of the man who loves me.
Because the cool breeze on my bare arms.
But to love is to open the circle
of what is beloved, to offer my attention
to the concert of crickets and crows,
to the proliferation of box elder beetles,
the weeds that infiltrate the field. Sound
of lawn mowers, jackhammers, swarm
of mosquitoes. Stench of Sulphur. Deep
snows that bury the drive.
And love says why stop there? Widen
the circle to toxic sludge. Yellow jackets.
Earwigs. Freezing sideways sleet. Men
with guns and hate in their stare. Girls
who spit disdain. And the pain
that steals sleep. And the pain
that never leaves. And the pain
that would obliterate every bright thing,
and in so doing, reveal what is most precious—
this ability to love. To love despite.
To love regardless. To love. To love
what I hate, even you, frost that will crack
my bones. Will you not be my final teacher
in how to offer my attention? Will you
not be my last great love?
One Walk in the Frost
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fences, frost, poem, poetry, remarkable in the everyday on February 8, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Meditation on the Frost in the Field, Shining
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged frost, inner beauty, poem, poetry, shine on October 11, 2017| 3 Comments »
all this glimmer
seems to have come
from nothing
sometimes it takes
the cold to make
invisible beauty visible
all day I look
into others, trying to find
the sky inside us
You Know How Frost Goes
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged attention, cold, frost, neglect, poem, poetry, relationships on September 25, 2017| Leave a Comment »
I return to find the basil dead,
wilted and browned, dull limp flags.
And the cosmos, bent and spent
and dead. And the beans, dead.
And the marigolds, still brilliant,
but the forked tongues of their leaves
say they are dead. What a difference
one night of cold can make, how
no matter how warm the season has been,
it irrevocably changes things.
It doesn’t matter I knew it would happen
eventually. The petunias fall all over themselves
in profuse bloom as if to say, it’s okay,
not all is lost, but it’s enough to make a woman
decide to pay attention, to be warm
in every garden she enters.
Some blooms defy the seasons.
There’s so much beauty at stake.
I’ve Heard It In the Chillest Land
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged autumn, frost, garden, hope, poem, poetry on September 22, 2015| 1 Comment »
Already the frost has come,
both intricate and merciless,
and it has taken the basil,
the green beans, the zinnias
and whatever hope we had
that summer might never end.
We knew our hope was irrational,
but that’s never stopped a hope before.
Every day there’s more evidence
against hope—the headlines,
the angry boy down the street,
the child bride in Afghanistan.
And still it rises up, slightly
browned, but still shining
like that marigold bloom that was hiding
beneath a sunflower leaf—
it should be frosted and dead, but
it’s not. Damn hope. Never
acting the way we think it will.
May it trick us forever into choosing
to live another day. And after a long winter
when we’re sure it’s gone, may it always
reseed, putting up dozens of starts.
Not all of them will make it. Some will.