Posted in Uncategorized, tagged community, garden, gardener on January 21, 2020| Leave a Comment »
As surely as I know how to spell harvest,
I understood today that no matter our job titles,
our work is gardener: always the same:
Plant the seeds. Tend what grows. Nourish.
Pinch back. Repeat. What a gift to see, at last,
the size of the garden. What a gift
to be in service to the world—to pull up
our sleeves, to smell the earth, to take
what we’ve been given and make it better,
to feed the others, to do it again.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Beethoven, beets, gardener, poem, poetry on September 28, 2015| 1 Comment »
The beets are always disappointing.
I dream of beets densely red and robust,
beets that have weight to them,
beets that take effort to slice.
But this year, again, they are small,
puny, even, though there are a lot of them.
I suppose a better gardener would research
nitrogen and potassium and how to best amend.
I suppose a better Buddhist would not complain.
But I am not a Buddhist. And I am no great gardener,
just a woman with a bit of dirt to play in.
They say that Beethoven, when he could hear,
would ask people in the audience to give him a tune.
And someone would hum for him, or whistle,
and he’d play the tune back and then improvise
variations on their theme. What tune
am I whistling for the master? A song
of paucity? Of ingratitude?
And how might it carry on, one variation
after another? This began just a little whine,
or so I thought, a little melody for more.
But who is master of this score? Oh woman
who sees the glass half empty, do you really
still believe that there’s a glass? Don’t you see,
this is not a poem about beets?
It’s about the way small things can last.
The beets are always disappointing.
I dream of beets densely red and robust,
beets that have weight to them,
beets that take effort to slice.
But this year, again, they are small,
puny, even, though there are a lot of them.
I suppose a better gardener would research
nitrogen and potassium and how to best amend.
I suppose a better Buddhist would not complain.
But I am not a Buddhist. And I am no great gardener,
just a woman with a bit of dirt to play in.
They say that Beethoven, when he could hear,
would ask people in the audience to give him a tune.
And someone would hum for him, or whistle,
and he’d play the tune back and then improvise
variations on their theme. What tune
am I whistling for the master? A song
of paucity? Of ingratitude?
And how might it carry on, one variation
after another? This began just a little whine,
or so I thought, a little melody for more.
But who is master of this score? Oh woman
who sees the glass half empty, do you really
still believe that there’s a glass? Don’t you see,
this is not a poem about beets?
It’s about the way small things can last.