This is what happens when the plants design the garden display.
Phantoms zip by
quieter than owls’ wings
quicker than flickers of shadow
against the dawn.
Catching the morning light
dust motes circle above the hay
on air currents disturbed
by invisible guests.
Discarded feathers and bits of eggshell
resting on the old concrete floor
beneath a beam are a clue.
The goats and I are not alone.
Barn swallows have returned.
My cat's eyes are like topaz flecked
with garnets.
I never noticed until
one day I stopped
and stared.
I wondered how
such wonder
should go unnoticed.
I glanced into the garden
and spotted
that crimson
in princess feather plumes
and frying peppers
and tomatoes.
Can we ever get enough
of beauty?
where baby red-winged blackbirds
splash in shady spots
where plump bumblebees burrow
into hostas' fragrant flowers
where sneaky squirrels steal sour fruit
from the ancient apple tree
where black swallowtails float
above purple phlox
where sphinx moths sip from beebalm
the color of raspberry wine
where the garden beckons
offering herself to all.
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.
Swamp milkweed, bees and beetles
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
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.
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.
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.
In honor of the 5 years of spring in this place we've been given.
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
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.
We assumed democracy
to be as unassailable as granite.
We didn't know it would shatter
in the hands of an errant stonemason.
We trusted the economy
to be as enduring as quartz.
We didn't expect it to splinter
like slate when mishandled.
We believed we had built a foundation
as firm as bedrock.
We didn't realize we had built overtop
restless fault lines.
Now we must pick up the scattered fragments
and envision a mosaic we cannot see.
May we sculpt a new beginning from the polished
marble cast aside.
Life Persists, blue - With Kind Permission from Todd Blake, the Quaker Pirate
https://quakerpirate.format.com
There is still time
this winter
to cut back
your oak
your hazelnut or willow
before the sap rises
still time to cut to the ground
what has persisted
so long
you presumed
it was permanent.
From old stumps
come new shoots
young sprouts
from aged trunks
but you must tend
them well
erect protection against
those who would
devour them
clear away brambles
that would usurp
the sun's light
given the chance.
After my friend died,
it took her weeks to die and I
sat with her through it all,
no one wanted
her remains.
I spread them
beneath her roses,
and some I tossed into the air
of my own garden,
hoping for blessing,
like Galadriel's dust.
Where do you scatter the ashes
of a nation?
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Outside my window, a cardinal
sings his glad spring song while
democracy crashes.
How fortunate is he
not to be
human.
Single flames
flickering,
dancing to
the rhythm of those
gathered round
longing for light
they cannot
create.
Brave may we now be,
alone
or together,
welcoming
the Light,
passing on the warmth
bestowed
in these dark times,
and cold.
when snow buries the landscape and icicles hang from the branches,
dark-eyed juncos trill in the soft sunlight, feasting on sycamore seeds,
when winds sweep across the pasture and seep through the cracks in the old barn,
Carolina wrens chatter as they pick dried insects from old spider webs in the rafters,
when Orion and Gemini hover as pinpricks of light in the dark winter sky,
great horned owls whisper a distant duet in the mountains behind the house.
When your heart feels as hardened
as ice upon the pond,
may tadpoles in the mud below
remind you of hibernation's gift.
When your inner life seems drab
as winter's monochrome,
may you be surprised by the cardinal's crimson
or a bluebird's russet breast.
When your spirit's song is stilled
and you can't recall the tune,
may you join the chickadee's refrain
sung long before the thaw.
When you feel as wizened
as the hazelnut's limp catkins,
may plumping pussy willow buds foretell
the fruitfulness to come.
When your hope is as frozen
as the ground on which you walk,
may the Light in all that is
kindle new warmth and light your way.
