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Posts Tagged ‘growth’

 

 

More and more, I have come to admire resilience.

            —Jane Hirshfield, “Optimism”

 

 

And when the snap peas ran out of fence to climb,

they created a living trellis of leaf and vine

and climbed up themselves, winding

and twisting toward the sun—

there’s green inside your limbs.

There’s braiding to be done.

 

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The garden rows are visible now,

the slender shoots of carrots,

 

the succulent leaves of calendula,

the curly beginnings of kale—

 

after many years these first green shapes

feel like old friends.

 

I greet them as I walk the rows,

tell them they are doing fine.

 

And then there are the gaps

between the sprouts, the places

 

where I can only guess about

why the seeds don’t grow.

 

A lack of water? Planted too deep?

A shadow? A dud of a seed? A slug?

 

Of course I take it personally

and wonder what else I should have done.

 

And then I pull out the extra seeds

and fill in the spots where there is no green.

 

There is no use in blaming. Just plant the seed

where nothing is growing. It’s so simple,

 

the task, so lacking in blame.

There are gardens in me begging

 

for me to do the same—to notice

where there is failure to thrive,

 

and to seed again, then bring water,

bring nourishment, wait.

 

 

 

 

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for e.m.m.

 

 

The amaryllis

you gave us

three weeks ago

grew two inches

just today—

so much life

in such a short time.

Already, the two

thick buds

are swelling,

twin green

chambers.

So much of

any miracle

is invisible,

though it happens

right before

our eyes.

I can hardly stop

watching the buds

and thinking

of you, wishing

for a miracle

and knowing

that even if

one is rising

up right now,

it wouldn’t

be like the amaryllis—

miraculous

as this flower is,

we know

it’s red petals

that emerge. No,

what I wish

for you

is something

I couldn’t possibly

know—something

I couldn’t name

or predict, something

that will rise out of

what seems to be

nothing and render

us astonished,

humbled, delirious

with its impossible

grace.

 

 

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carrying that sled

uphill for so long, I forgot

it was for riding

*

shedding the roof

when the house no longer fits—

now nothing between us and the stars

*

but I miss the weight

say the hands, too free after

setting down the stone chest

*

running full speed

into my own fear, I ricochet

into the arms of god

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While

saying the words
I knew you did not
want to hear I tried
to shape my voice
like the flowers
we know will
eventually
come in more fully
only after the stem
has been
broken.

I forced myself
to keep my eyes
open.

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In the loss
is a branch
with a brittle
stem
where an old
fruit hangs
rust-colored
and dried
beside
a tight cluster
of rose-tipped buds
where something
fragile
and white
is just
beginning
to form.

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I grieved
that the rose had stopped blooming
when in fact
it was opening
only very, very, very slowly

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