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Posts Tagged ‘garden’

Now That the Stakes Are Low

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on July 10, 2024| 11 Comments »


 
 
For the fourth time in four weeks,
I slip my spade into the dark soil
of the half-circle garden.
I make twenty shallow holes,
then lift the pansies from crinkly
plastic containers and drop
the root-bound squares into the earth.
Within hours, the small brown bunny
arrives with his pink twitchy nose
and his small round lump
of soft bunny body,
and while I wash dishes
I meet through the window
his innocent, unblinking gaze
as he consumes a dozen
deep purple petals
in small, efficient tugs.
He looks at me as if to say,
You love me. And I do.
I croon at the bunny how
cute his small ears. How perfect
his bliss. How good he is
for eating his pretty bunny food.
Tomorrow, the rest
of the blooms will be gone.
In a week, the leaves will
be gone, too. Every. Single. One.
And I will go buy more pansies.
How sweet it’s become,
this path of surrender,
the strange joy that rises in me
when I see my precious pansies
nibbled to the roots.
Now that the stakes are low,
it’s much easier to bow
to the way things are.
For the price of pansies,
I can practice again and again
how to find true delight
in this art of letting go.

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Practice

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on June 20, 2024| 2 Comments »

I plunge my hands into the soil
and tug on the long white bindweed roots
that cling to the cool damp dark.
Never once have I pulled the whole plant.
Always, the bindweed comes back.
Once I might have longed for a weed-free
world. How did I not see the bindweed
for what it is—a chance to touch
again and again what humbles me, and
to learn with my hands the art of acceptance
so my hands might teach my heart.

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The Teacher

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on February 21, 2024| 6 Comments »


for Joi Sharp
 
 
In the garden of wisdom,
she did not step in as head gardener.
Instead, she tended her own planting.
She showed me how to weed
the stories we tell ourselves,
how inner spaciousness
is the richest soil for growth.
She did not do the tilling for me.
Inquiry became my hoe.
She offered questions free
as rain water.
And when it was time to sow,
from her own rows she gathered seeds.
She did not do the planting.
She handed the seeds to me.
 

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Autumn in the Garden

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on October 12, 2023| 6 Comments »

Though the garden wears mostly brown leaves
and dried vines, though the stems
of the sunflowers are brittle and broken and bent,
though frost has taken nearly every living thing,
the snapdragons still bloom, scarlet flags of persistence,
their heads deep red, their petals still soft,
and I know it won’t last forever,
but for now, they resist what is cold, what is dark,
and I, while I can, I want to be snapdragon,
want to bring to this life all the beauty I can muster,
even when it’s dire, and give it all away.

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Rebuilding

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 14, 2023| 12 Comments »


 
Perhaps it is no Eiffel Tower,
no theory of relativity, no treatise
on law or philosophy of man,
but I did it, I constructed
the perfect recipe to turn fifteen cups
of fresh basil into a rich and delicate pesto,
the kind of pesto that makes fettucine
grateful to arrive naked to a plate
so that it might swim in such green.
The kind of pesto that makes me want
to eat it from a bowl with a cracker.
God knows I have failed before—
made it too lemony, too garlicky,
too salty, too thin. But this pesto—
built with dry roasted almonds
and lemon zest and parmesan cheese—
this pesto carries the taste
of every word I whispered
into the plants as they grew—
In each bite, I swear I taste the words,
“That’s right, you can do it.”
Despite drought. Despite frost.
Despite hail. Despite heat.
God, this pesto tastes like fruition,
like life itself triumphant.
It tastes like robust green luck.
I savor each bite, strong and bright,
I will it into my being.

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Slower

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on August 10, 2023| 6 Comments »

They are beautiful, the Japanese eggplant,
dangling beneath wide fringed leaves.
I love the way I need to search for them,
how they curl and swirl like amethyst earrings,
how they hide in surprise in the low shade.
I love the way they tangle in the basket,
how they refuse to lie flat on the grill.
Some things defy a linear process,
require me to go slow, to take note.
All afternoon, I move slower.
Not once do I wish it were any other way.
 

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One Instruction

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on July 22, 2023| 4 Comments »

not here to teach me
but to bring beauty
this red nasturtium

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After a Difficult Day

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on July 19, 2023| 8 Comments »


 
 
I go to the garden
and snip the dead blooms
and talk to the beans
and stake the tall stalks
of blue delphiniums.
I plunge my hands
in the dirt to pull weeds
and pull spinach into my mouth.
In an hour, I am wholly new.
But to remember who I am,
five minutes will do.

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After a Rogue Hard Frost in Late June

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on June 25, 2023| 2 Comments »

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.

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In Search

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on June 5, 2023| 10 Comments »

We must go in search of enchantment.
            René Magritte, “Surrealism in the Sunshine”
 
 
 
And so, my heart,
raw and torn,
went to the garden
and bid its hands
to dig in the soil
and plant zinnias,
lemon thyme, basil,
and osteopermum.
And what hurt still hurt—
but an hour later,
the heart emerged
raw and torn and
grateful for beauty.
All day, it remembered
the orange and purple petals,
the green scent of thyme,
the zinnias, their blossoms
so exuberant, the centers
surrounded by stars.

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