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Posts Tagged ‘work’

Getaway

 

 

 

Even on a Monday it can happen,

you step out of the office

and instead of going to your car

or making another call or running

to the bank, your feet

and legs conspire to move you

toward the woods where after

only ten minutes you are more breath

than brain, more here than anywhere else—

water drips in the creek bed,

sunlight pushes through empty branches,

and at your sides your arms swing

as if they were made for this.

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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.

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One Humbling

 

 

in seven days

the radish sprouts

push green through earth—

 

every job on my list today

seems quite easy

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One Inevitable

 

 

 

looking for a place

to rest in beauty I found

a garden needing to be tended

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Goes for Play, Too

There is work
to do. There
always is. Me,
I make up a once upon
a time to go with it.
Add twists to the vacuuming,
hum to the dishes, turn
laundry into lyric.
For you, it is
more like math.
A simple path.
Do this plus do this
equals done. There
is not a right or
a wrong. There are
two, and there
is work to do.

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Ongoing

Mary always shook her head
when I told her I pulled up the mullein.
You know you could farm it,
she said. You can use it to make
healing oil. And Tara, from Texas,
she laughed at my weeding. Told me
how she had dug up two mullein rosettes
to transplant them in her yard.
The leaves, she said, they’re so, so soft.
And the flowers, they’re beautiful,
so yellow.

Every year, the mullein
come back, no matter how fastidiously
I have cleared the field the year before.
How many other things have I tried
to clear with no success?

The seasons are changing, The air
wears a yellowing scent and afternoons
forget themselves. I used to resent
the way things return. Now I resent
and admire them, even
those taprooted thoughts that showed up today,
those ones that I have wished away.

And here we are again. The field
will never be cleared. The work
will always be waiting. And somewhere
inside the despised thing, the chance
to find healing, to see beauty, to feel grace,
the chance to kneel.

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