All I Can Offer

 I am out of words today. Weighed down with grief, I watch as the powerful betray everyone else, and words of resilience and hope are not ready at hand. Thankfully, I have a garden and live among the wild ones who come to share it. It is with both, who have no notion of a nation’s struggle, that my mind can momentarily rest.

Today, instead of words, here are glimpses of the gifts that are still here, waiting to be noticed.

                              Haas Halo Wild Hydrangea a magnet for pollinators

                                       Raspberry Wine Bee Balm

                           Butterfly Weed, host for Monarchs

    

                      Cleome or spider flower, one of the few plants
                                  garden predators do not touch     

            

                          Zinnias and the first sunflower of the season

                          Abundance in the (fenced) vegetable garden

                          Swamp milkweed, bees and beetles

                          Black swallowtail young feeding on rue

Intimately Acquainted

 

"O God, you have searched me and you know me."

 As the vixen screams in the darkeness from the field across the road
I acknowledge the gift I've been given.

As the red-headed woodpecker calls from a black locust in the back woods
I realize I have been heard.

As tree swallows swoop above waving meadow grasses
for a moment I am living in Eden.

As the oriole's sweet song floats from the treetops
I lift my own quiet song of thanksgiving.

As the catbird chatters into the evening
I know I am where I belong, after all.

"O God, you have searched me and you know me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me to comprehend."
                                                             Psalm 139

Somewhere an Owl

In the distance a barred owl sings
to the dark of a summer night
calling to his mate
or offspring.
Or perhaps he announces to the world
he is still here.
As are you.

Take courage.
Take heart.

The day will dawn when we can rest.

Resilience

 

The April freeze was not unexpected.
The ancient apple tree's white cloud
darkened to tan
by morning.

Yet her life blood flowed
and her limbs were strong
and in the alchemy
of her intention
new buds formed
and opened one by one.

The bees
returned.

Every Gardener Knows

Every Gardener Knows
the exultation
of a spring garden in its prime.
Golden ragwort reflects back the sun
Virginia bluebells stand glorious in their blueness
rosy bleeding hearts and fuzzy foamflower
wander through the Christmas ferns and pinxter azalea.

Yet comes the day the garden morphs
as stems tilt and blossoms tire
and with a sigh for beauty spent
she takes the past in hand
clears away faded debris
making room for all
that is to come.

I Didn't Think to Ask for Woodcocks

In honor of the 5 years of spring in this place we've been given.

I Didn't Think to Ask for Woodcocks

or the red fox in the field across the street
or the merlin in the front yard
and the fox sparrows in the back
or the tundra swans
or the bald eagle sailing through the yard
with prey clutched 
in its talons.

I didn't think to ask for toads
and tadpoles
and spotted salamander eggs
in the old backyard pond we inherited
or the raccoons who come 
to wash their food 
at night.

I didn't think to ask for the two columbines
or the ancient peonies
or the softest soil I have ever worked.
Or that I might bring
redemption to this land
and blessing to those 
who loved it
long before.

For all I didn't think to ask...

Thank You.

The Magnolias Bloomed

 

The Magnolias Bloomed

bravely
again this year.
Heedless
of the forecast freeze
they threw themselves
into billowing 
beauty,
pink clouds that would
brown
by morning.

Purple finches
perch 
in place
of petals
and glossy 
greening new
leaves
bedeck 
bare branches.

Next year
they
will try
again.