Digging
deeper
into the soil
of self
planting
only
seeds
of you.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged other, planting, seed, self, soil on July 21, 2020| 2 Comments »
Digging
deeper
into the soil
of self
planting
only
seeds
of you.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, garlic, love, patience, planting on February 14, 2020| 2 Comments »
When everything had died,
but before the ground was frozen,
I planted the garlic in four long rows—
dozens of cloves deep enough
in the earth so the frost
couldn’t push them up and out.
I think of them now as winter
continues to gather the world
in its white embrace.
I think of how, beneath the snow,
they’re preparing to flourish,
to root, to leaf, to grow.
It’s not so different, I think,
from the ways you love me—
how, sometimes, when everything
seems barren, you’ll plant seeds.
And though we see nothing for a long,
long time, there, like cloves beneath the surface,
each seed multiplies into many.
So much of love happens invisibly.
So much of love takes a stretch.
When the cloves ripen, some we will consume.
They will mark us with their strength.
Some, like love, we will plant again.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, garden, granddaughter, grandmother, merry stoll, planting, poem, poetry on May 26, 2018| 6 Comments »
for Merry Stoll
After I learn that she died,
I go to the garden, grateful
that there are petunias,
cosmos and snapdragons
to plant. Salvia, pansies, and
verbena that will drape its purple
kindness down the sides
of the planter. I don’t
put on my gloves. I let my hands
enter the soil and feel
how good the earth is.
This is how I best remember her,
with a trowel or a scissors in her hand,
ready to transplant, to trim,
to harvest the blooms
into a bouquet for the altar
or table. Flowers hung
in her garage to dry. Flowers
in her bathrooms, her dining room,
her kitchen. It came easy to her,
which stem to place where.
Which color, which ribbon,
which grass, which vase.
She left beauty all over the place.
Once she sat with me
on her green and white couch,
and let me read her poems,
a whole book of them.
We sat there for hours,
and she listened and laughed
at Shel Silverstein’s antics,
and as I read, I felt like a flower,
like something just at the edge
of bloom. Her attention
made me beautiful.
Today, the garden is just starting
to find itself after winter. I cannot help
but weep into the holes I have dug.
It is tender, this moment, and fragile
this life. I feel like making wild pledges—
to honor her legacy—to find
and share beauty everywhere I go.
I feel determined to keep my word.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, planting, poem, poetry, seed on May 12, 2018| Leave a Comment »
before the planting,
the dreaming, laying out seeds
while summer still fits in my hand