Posts Tagged ‘growing’

One Beginning

so spindly
these seedlings
that will soon feed hundreds

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Down by the river we sit and talk.

When I think I can’t ache any more,

the world serves more heartache.

And I meet it.

I say no, but I feel myself stretched

by some great invisible hand,

rendering me spacious enough to hold

what must be held.

When we rise to leave,

the river doesn’t stop.

Nor does the forgiving wind.

I swear I feel them move

right through me.

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And though he struggles to conjugate estar

and though his adjectives precede the nouns,

he’s doing it. He’s telling me about una foto

and all its themes—and though the words

are like strange spices in his mouth—paprika

y cilantro—and though he insists he hates it,

there is a tender sinceridad in his voice, like

a tree seed, perhaps, una semilla, that has

some vague idea of its potential, but is still

so trapped in its seed-ness that it is intimidated

by trees. And whatever part of me that is todavia

una semilla recognizes itself. How frightening

to see all that we do not know, to stand

beneath it like the shade of a giant tree,

to know ourselves as small and still stand straight.

My son finishes his descripción, then smiles

at me, and in his smile, I somehow see

the roots, the greening leaves, the trunk

as it reaches up doing what trunks are made to do.





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Already the feet of the rabbit are white.
The river runs low in its rocky bed.

And though the season for growing is done,
there is still much to be planted.

Some things, love, are better begun
when its darker and heading toward cold.

We will not see the flowers that grow
from these roots for a long, long time,

chance is never, I suppose. But that is no
reason not to put our hands in the dirt,

to sow and sow again. When we are quiet,
I hear the river crossing the stones. When we are quiet,

I swear I can almost hear the sound
of roots as they stretch toward a deeping dark.

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Here, voice, speak
for my thighs.
Speak for my fists.
Speak for all the places
I try to hide. Speak
in cobweb. Speak in rust.
Speak in siren. Speak
in fog. Speak ugly.
Speak rancid. Speak
lost. Speak sour. Speak
stammer. Speak red dress.
Speak busy signal. Speak
fool. Here, voice, take
your slippers off. Take
your apron off. Take off
your corset. Remove
your belt. Consider me
your vessel. Use me up.
Speak it all.

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my hammer, my nails
what good are they now
the whole roof collapsed


doe in the meadow
my thoughts in the meadow
one of these is quiet


so much to learn
not knowing


not by the shoulders
but by the soul
life shakes me


hands bloody
tearing down a wall
that isn’t even there


doe in the meadow
my thoughts in the meadow
one of these is quiet


at the same time
the tree grows
toward darkness, toward light


so open my hands
not holding
my hammer, my nails


surrounded by rubble
still I beg Love, keep having
your way with me

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Erika on the red mat
tucks her right foot in her groin
and bends forward from the waist

then lowers till she’s hovering
above her left tippy toes.
If you can’t follow

what I’m saying, that’s
because her body’s twisted,
furled and folded as a body seldom is.

But full of grace,
she brings her hands
to meet in prayer in front of her

and for a minute poises there,
a compact bulb with five small roots
and a patient shoot waiting

to push up and through.
It’s beautiful to stand beside
Erika on the red mat

to feel more than see
the rising energy as like
a tulip in the spring

she reaches not just up
but into the quiet balance point
where anything can happen.

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last night’s snow
fills in the spaces
where we’ve been

so many emptinesses
in our wake

some never fill

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