The Building of a Garden

It is sacred work,
the building of a garden,
bowing in gratitude for the soil
and asking, "How may I
join you in the incubating
of new life?"

I hauled rocks from the tree line,
no less a holy task,
rocks to line my garden beds.
From the old piles, carefully
I lifted and then replaced those
that were the roof of
a chipmunk's home.
Many roofs sheltered many
tunnels but some were
as yet unused,
rocks enough to share.

Now the beds have rounded edges,
like the shape of a womb, holding
possibility for what is yet to come,
a different kind of pregnancy.
Now I wait,
trusting,
knowing,
that what grows in the darkness
will be revealed
in time.

Sacred work.
Sacred waiting.
One in the same.

Old Eternal Rocks

 

"The stable earth, the old salt sea,
around the old eternal rocks." *

Eternal rocks.
Forged at the beginning of time. 
Now my rocks,
these ever-present impediments
lurking under grass and soil,
pesky, heavy, nuisances
that impede my digging,
dulling my spade and bending
the fence posts, thwarting
my desire for seamless effort,
for moving ahead without interruption.

These rocks I unthinkingly toss aside
adding to piles at the edge 
of the woods.
Piles begun centuries 
before when plows cut the earth behind
the horses who dragged them, 
and later, tractors.
The farmers' present
now the past. 

Eternal, enduring rocks,
tellers of ancient stories I cannot read,
tales of mystery,
of hidden history written
in the depths as 
the earth was forming, 
recently recognized,
carefully placed,
incorporated into the landscape of now,
and seen with
new eyes.

*Quote at top from St. Patrick's Breastplate.

The Herald on St Brigid's Day

He commences in mid-winter, 
when the landscape is frozen and
blanketed with snow
and the ice that does not crack
beneath my feet.
There have been other murmurings,
muffled whisperings and chip notes
from white-throats and 
song sparrows,
the short-lived, rollicking chorus
of the Carolina wren,
a snatch of the towhee's song,
as if he had forgotten himself and 
absentmindedly spoken
aloud.

On warmer days
house finches trot out their first phrases,
and the cardinal in the arborvitae
tentatively tunes up his whistle but,
as the next storm descends,
expectations recede and
their voices still.
It is not yet time.

Still, there are those who
carry hope, who,
even as snow swirls and
the temperatures plummet,
have begun the song that,
is now unquenchable. 
Tufted titmice, those jaunty, bright-eyed,
grey little beings who
flit after one another through the woodlands,
are enthusiastically
thinking spring thoughts
on these frigid,
though lengthening,
days.

For those who have ears,
their simple notes bless
our winter weariness
with an absolute
annual promise.
No matter how seemingly far off,
the earth will soften
once again
and spring will
slowly,
stealthily,
almost invisibly,
begin.

Who knows?
Perhaps,
it already
has.

February 1st is the feast day of St Brigid, Ireland's beloved saint, which coincides with the festival of Imbolc, the beginning of spring in the ancient Irish calendar.