Posted in Uncategorized, tagged becoming, gardening, onion, patience on April 25, 2021| 2 Comments »
While I did not fix
the thing I most
wish to fix, and I
did not do
the most important
thing on my list,
and I did not save
anyone, and I did
not solve the world’s
problems, I did
plant the onion sets
in the garden,
pressed my fingers
into the dry earth,
knew myself as
a thin dry start.
Oh patience, good
self. This slow
and quiet growing,
this, too, is
what you are
here to do.
published in ONE ART: A journal of poetry
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged broccoli, gardening, growth, patience, poem, poetry, ripening, self talk on October 18, 2019| 2 Comments »
The broccoli was a disappointment this year—
planted from seed, it had finally begun to sport
small knobby green heads when the frost came.
And though the broccoli didn’t die, it stalled.
Perhaps I fear I am like this broccoli—destined
to grow but never to fruit. Perhaps this is why
I feel such urgency, this need to write faster,
heal quicker, mature sooner, love more. Because
what if the freeze comes? What if I die before
doing what I have come here to do?
There is a part of me who is patient. A part of me
who says, Sweet One, you could not possibly be
any more you than you are right now. She tells me,
You are exactly enough. And sometimes I believe her.
But sometimes I roll my eyes at her and tell myself,
Hurry up, hurry up. I know myself as barren stalk.
I try to will my own ripening. Not once has it worked,
not once, and still this strange drive:
go faster, do it better, do it now.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gardening, poem, poetry, potatoes, self love on September 10, 2019| 3 Comments »
At midday, I dug beneath damp straw
and gently ran my fingers through dirt,
and, there, in the kingdom of earth worms,
found dozens of beautiful ruby-skinned potatoes,
each one of them precious in my hands.
God knows I have longed to be found this way—
pulled out from my darkness and cradled,
held up to the light with an oooh and an ahh
and a laugh of joy, though I’m slightly misshapen,
though I’m bumpy and imperfect.
There are days when I see through it so easily,
the longing to be loved, and I simply feel the love
that always exists, the love that grows in darkness,
that is utterly unconcerned with worthiness,
that feels no need for discovery.
There are moments when I can’t imagine
I ever thought I was lost, like today,
kneeling in the dirt, marveling at the beauty
of potatoes, mud-smudged and lumpy,
knowing myself as another who belongs to the earth.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, fixing, gardening, poem, poetry on August 26, 2019| 4 Comments »
There is a carpenter in me
with an impressive tool belt.
She thinks she can fix everything.
Every time there’s a leak in the ducts,
she blames that darn condensation,
and whips out her metallic tape.
And when there’s a heart break,
she mumbles something about not meeting code,
then takes note of all the cracks,
all the places where it’s falling apart,
and gets to work: cleans up and preps
new concrete to hold things together.
I know she’s doing what she knows best,
I know she has good intentions.
But today, while she runs off to seek
just the right hammer, just the right nails,
I take those leaky ducts and that broken heart
into the garden and dig potatoes.
The soil is cool and slips soft
though my fingers as I sift for yellow fingerlings
and red-skinned Desirees.
There is a gardener in me who doesn’t try
to fix anything. She says in a quiet southern drawl,
Sweet thing, bring all that brokenness here
and let it walk amongst the sunflowers.
Let it weed the carrots and pick
some calendula bouquets. And nothing
gets fixed, but something shifts as I sit
beside unruly mint, its green spears rampant,
its scent so cooling, so sweet.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gardening, patience, poem, poetry, work on June 19, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Push again the small dried peas
one inch into the earth. The gaps
in the rows where they did not grow,
do not take these personally.
Not everything comes to fruition,
but that is no reason to stop planting.
In fact there is every reason to believe
that not so long from now
the sweet green song of fresh sweet peas
will serenade your impatient tongue
if only your hands keep doing their work.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dead heading, gardening, poem, poetry, success on June 4, 2017| Leave a Comment »
I snip off dead flowers
to trick the pansy
into blooming again
wonder which
of my past
blossoms
to cut
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged forgiveness, gardening, happiness, poem, poetry on May 31, 2017| Leave a Comment »
After the frost,
the sweet peas
rise from the dirt
like little green angels
with bowed heads
and tiny green wings—
it’s enough to make
a woman believe
small miracles can happen
if only she plants
the seed.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged anarchy, gardening, poem, poetry on May 29, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged awakening, gardening, poem, poetry, silence on May 14, 2017| 2 Comments »
Digging there in the dirt
with small seeds
in your hands
you hear the wind
high in the cottonwoods,
you hear the silence
sown inside the wind,
and the quieter
you are, you hear
perhaps, within you
a call like the geese
that aren’t flying
overhead, a startling
call, an almost
strangled sound
that, if you heard it,
might almost
wake you up.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gardening, poem, poetry, reslilience, sunflower on July 27, 2015| 1 Comment »
Those forlorn, sagging sunflowers,
all morning I watch the severe arcs
of their lifeless stems. Just yesterday,
they were so full of vigor before I pulled them up
and moved them across the garden.
I, too, have been ripped up. Is this why
I can’t stop staring at them all morning
at the slow, slow straightening,
the gradual unflagging of the leaves,
the marvelous resilience
I want to believe I might find inside me
no matter how brutal or well intentioned
the hand that tugs, tugs at my roots.