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Posts Tagged ‘garden’

 

 

 

Pulling the long red radish bulbs

from the garden, I marvel

at their pinkness, rub off the dirt,

bite into the crisp white flesh.

There are few tastes that bite

just right this way—make the mouth

happy to be a mouth and it teaches me,

without trying, that sometimes

when we wait too long,

a thing turns bitter. But oh, get

the timing right, my god, it’s sweet.

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Midsummer

 

 

 

And after the hail and

the midsummer frost,

the garden remembers

how to summer, how to green,

how to leaf and root and bloom,

and everything is so alive,

even this gardener who somehow

does not hear the clock inside

of everything, no, all she hears

is the roar of the river, the

bright chorus of insects,

the seemingly infinite beat

of her own goldening heart.

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( … )

 

 

 

She wanders the parenthetical garden,

each curved stem an invitation to step

away from the trail (remember how the Stoic

said to dwell on the beauty of life, to run

with the stars), and soon she is what some

call lost (Any fool can know, said Einstein,

the point is to understand), and there,

lost in the sound of the bird she doesn’t hear

(Heard melodies are sweet, said Keats,

but those unheard are sweeter), she sits

on the swing of her thoughts (what is it

she is so afraid of) (seek those, said Rumi,

who fan your flame)(how comfortable

can she become with her errors)(false start)

and notices how it is the knots that hold up

the swing (what story is she ignoring?).

This garden, my god, it is beautiful.

She was going somewhere, wasn’t she?

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Pulling ten thousand

yellow-petalled weeds—

how many more millions

left to pull? How soon

will they be back?

Still, marveling

for a moment

at this small bit of

weedless dirt.

In me, how many

thousands of weeds?

And beneath them,

how many gardens

just waiting to be revealed?

 

 

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In almost every garden bed,

the sunflowers seedlings volunteer—

and every year I dig them up

and find them a home along the fence

where they can grow extravagantly.

Oh exuberance, of course

I love the sunflowers, their crazy willingness

to grow amongst the beets, amongst

the greens, amongst the chard

and kale and peas. I love their insistence

on making beauty and reaching for light.

I love their great golden heads,

playground of bees, nodding until

all their petals are gone. I know

they don’t mean to shade everything else,

don’t mean to block out the light.

They’re just doing what they were

designed to do. Grow tall.

Be stunning. Gather light. Make more.

 

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There are darknesses in me,

places I would disregard.

Is it any wonder every year

I plant thousands of tiny seeds

and then wander the garden,

rooting for each as overnightly

they put up rows of tiny leaves.

How easily I forget what is possible.

 

 

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basil on the porch

the morning after a frost

leaves limp and black things—

how greenly it met yesterday

no amount of I’m sorry will do

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Why do we have to do this,

asks my daughter, hoe in hand,

and I, hoe in hand, reply

that it’s good for the soil

and helps it to breathe.

 

I think about how my own thoughts

crust over, how quickly

they become impenetrable.

 

And then hoe of loss. Hoe of hope.

Hoe of disbelief. Hoe of shock.

 

Again and again,

the world breaks me open,

allows the new to come in.

 

Again and again, I resist

the change. And then marvel

at how essential it is,

the new ideas so green,

so persistent, tender as

a girl asking why.

 

 

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though I’ve just bought seeds

already my heart

is in full midsummer—

funny how all that is visible

is dirt

 

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Reading seed catalogs

on an eight degree morning,

how improbable they look,

those royal chantenay carrots,

those pink seashell cosmos,

those bright sugar snap peas,

so greenly dangling.

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