I have been crying
so now I am listening to
“Shelter from a Storm,
drawing zentangle roses.
The first break and crumpled fall,
then a company and conversations,
finally stretching sun salutations,
around, around, not leaving the page
till the end.
I tie blue, blue bows.
Beyond the window snow sings, pirouetting
down. I step out and lift up my again
sobbing voice.
Soo Line Community Garden 2024
We gather in this garden
we have all tended and for decades
planted and mended.
We have won the right to celebrate,
to dance a hundred dances friends,
sing and write as many songs,
toast, clap and stand
corn, sunflower and trellis tall.
We’ve won the gift to garden this land -
wrestle weeds, row spring ground,
seed and cover, water and pray,
our roots are deep set down.
We earned our way to huddle and break
out like seeds finding a place
for Darlene’s snap peas
Oak Man’s borage
John’s asparagus
Michael’s wild flowers
Sally’s strawberries
Tammy’s nettle
Dana planting on the hill
Connie and Wes, Maria and Lenny -
two mothers, two growing sons
Nacho’s students, always at home
Pam’s hollyhock’s merry welcome
Teri and Leslie’s pollinator habitat
Jim and Kyle, weeding each morning
devoted Ellan and her volunteers
carpenter John and his cedar benches
Jess and Kedar’s tomatillos
my Cherokee purple tomatoes
Kayoko’s sharing of sweet herbal teas
Patience’s plot of lettuce and beets
Regina’s lilies every spring
Peter’s table for mingling.
We gather in this garden
we have all tended and for decades
planted and mended.
We have won the right to celebrate,
to dance a hundred dances friends,
sing and write as many songs,
toast, clap and stand
corn, sunflower and trellis tall.
Sometimes the middle of the day
it’s a starry, starry night.
I can’t see the blackbird
fly and need a place to hide away.
Then I hear you ask me to sing
it’s a beautiful world.
I can’t help but remember
so many walking days,
blue skies smiling at me and sunshine
on my shoulders, you and I sided
by Yoda Moon. Mama,
for you I trowel and plant
parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
just outside the kitchen door.
I will keep listening,
translating for trees and yellow roses
every day.
And the twinkling chime - there it is! -
goodie, goodie here comes cookie,
walking down the avenue -
is that you Mama?
It is still a beautiful world.
She is translucent,
with beautiful, blue bell eyes.
Songs are falling asleep again.
I sing them to her, keeping memories near.
Last week, she raved about Warren,
Warren who lived next door
and says they are married.
“He’s studying to be a doctor,”
she told me yesterday, pink lipstick on,
wearing her knitted turquoise top,
linen pants and socks with red hearts,
blue bell eyes full and reflecting light.
Today, when I visit, she is in bed,
her eyes a waning crescent.
Warren’s been moved to memory care
and she can’t remember his name.
There’s folly at my backyard feeder
fluttering off and scooting over
sparrows vie for nuts and seeds
and raisins I’ve thrown in.
“There’s plenty for all!” I call from my window
as they flock and aim for coveted perches.
The feeder in constant turn and sway,
is empty in less than a day!
Tan as sand and white as cream
with lightest orange beak and feet,
males with black chins and bibs,
small enough to rest in my palm.
From feeder to ground to trellis to tree,
chirping and flying they are back again
for more nuts and seeds and raisins
and shenanigans!
Eating hate stew
brings out the worst in you,
equal if you’ve made
or dined on it. No longer free,
you’ll see everywhere enemies.
The door held open,
inside the table set
with chair pulled out,
ready for you to sit.
You choose. Just know
eating love stew
brings out the best in you.
You’ll see the best in me.
Every bite will nourish everyone
and we’ll share a morsel of heaven.
Reading S.P.
I am a flicker to her candle
crumb to her cake
letter to her novel
pebble to her lake
I am a paw print to her lion
flake to her snow
ray to her noonday sun
tent to her chateaux
She has claws to my filed flat nails
She’s a cheetah in every line
passing distance, living lightening
I am running out time
Sorry Morning
This sallow, sorry morning
I water the garden before the sun is high,
and count many dawning yellow-white blossoms
on just one tomato vine.
Every day I am wondering,
how far is love to reach?
- and now I heard of bombing -
There’s water on my hands and feet.
There’s water on my hands and feet
and in the air around me.
How far can love reach
on this sallow, sorry morning?
Jim, our hobby farm, our hobby farm, our hobby farm
what happened to our safe from harm hobby farm,
our hobby farm?
Our cows and chickens, their cheese and eggs,
their cheese and eggs, their cheese and eggs
free on the road, free on the road, we saw them free,
free on the road?
What happened to our rescues running,
our gardens blooming, our warn paths growing?
I could see your house from my house,
your house from my house, your house from my house
and rocking chairs, our rocking chairs, our rocking chairs.
John’s call one night was an unset alarm,
to say there would be no hobby farm,
no hobby farm, no hobby farm, no safe from harm,
no jokes to disarm, no upside down charm,
of our hobby farm.
Jim, my dear brother,
I still see it.
This chair, where the day’s care
like fall leaves or raindrops,
sets with a sign, where she sees
her plants and paintings, watercolor
windows, all light
as she closes her eyes.
Share one out quick
days with an aching stomach -
the maw in our bucket is fear, dear Liza.
How can this be?
The lot of slippery, same-old, insane
- fisted against evolving -
shoves again to the point.
They are ready, aiming, set to fire
on everyone!
Who am I?
Who do my children see that I am?
Friends, who are you?
Are we to do nothing?
Together, a sea of daffodils, snug
in winter’s layered ground, preparing.
Some know we will unfurl again,
affirm what we believe -
flight is inevitable.
We see in our sights our practice
to see the other growing, to grow
alongside, to feel the depths where
we have come from.
Time is distance -
This garden woven of leaf and sun,
rain and breeze, hands to ground,
baskets of flowers and greens.
