pulling the carrots
these old hands still learning
how not to rush
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged carrot, garden, harvest, poem, poetry on September 11, 2015| 1 Comment »
pulling the carrots
these old hands still learning
how not to rush
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, gratitude, harvest, poem, poetry, potato on August 29, 2015| 3 Comments »
There is no way to know
what we’ll find beneath
the yellowing leaves.
And always I forget
which varieties I’ve planted
and where. And so, when
the Finnish fingerlings appear
just below the surface,
I thrill in their golden
skin and knobby shapes,
and when the dark purple
potatoes emerge from the depths
of the garden bed,
by then, I am already kneeling,
but something inside kneels, too—
oh the russet and red-skinned
and pink-fleshed miracle of it all,
the sheer delight
of running my fingers
through the dirt and
pulling out potatoes,
each one somehow
a surprise, a small reminder
of how beautifully
the world can work,
how the darkness
nourishes such incredible
gifts. Ten hours since
I left the garden, and
whatever inside me knew to kneel
is still enthralled in prayer.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged blackberry picking, dreams vs. reality, harvest, poem, poetry, saying yes to the world as it is on August 24, 2015| 1 Comment »
with gratitude to Christie and Dave for their generous hearts and abundant backyard
The thickets are always thicker than I think,
climbing the branches of nearby trees and snaking
through the grass. And red berries are always greener
than I wish, full of pucker and startling bite.
But the blackest of berries, the duller ones, bulbous,
and days past their shine, they are sweeter than I dream.
Sometimes I imagine the way a thing will be—
invent it as something grander than itself.
But the blackberry, ripened in its woodland bramble,
stains the fingers and sings on the tongue
with all the sweetness late summer can gather
and spends all its pleasure at once. Sometimes
there is no better fantasy than the thing itself—
the thorns an integral part of the story. Sometimes
I wish that the stain would never leave.