…And moments that should each last forever
Slide unconsciously by us like water.
~Kenneth Rexroth from “Another Spring”
Tag: garden
From Blossom to Blossom
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
~Li-Young Lee from “From Blossoms”
~Li-Young Lee from “From Blossoms”
Shedding the Earth Crumbs
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
~Robert Frost from “Putting in the Seed”
A Thought So Small
Before the ordinary realities, ordinary failures:
hunger, coldness, anger, longing, heat.
Yet one day, a thought as small as a vetch flower opens.
~Jane Hirschfield from “Flowering Vetch”
Those Spiky Suns
How I loved those spiky suns,  Â
rooted stubborn as childhood  Â
in the grass, tough as the farmer’s  Â
big-headed children—the mats  Â
of yellow hair, the bowl-cut fringe.  Â
How sturdy they were and how  Â
slowly they turned themselves  Â
into galaxies, domes of ghost stars  Â
barely visible by day, pale  Â
cerebrums clinging to life  Â
on tough green stems.   Like you.  Â
Like you, in the end.   If you were here,  Â
I’d pluck this trembling globe to show  Â
how beautiful a thing can be  Â
a breath will tear away. Â
~Jean Nordhaus “A Dandelion for My Mother”
~Jean Nordhaus “A Dandelion for My Mother”
The lawn is filled with them now
yellow spots in carpeted green
closed tight at night,
in the morning,
opening as miniature reflections
of the real dawn.
Growing up, paid ten cents per dandelion
I dug up each long offending root,
restoring the blemished green
to pristine perfection;
no more yellow splotches
unruly stems
blow away ghosts
releasing scores of
seedy offspring.
But it didn’t last.
The perfect lawn
like the perfect life~
unbesmirched~
isn’t possible.
The hardy seeds of trouble
float innocently on the breeze
or lie hidden deep in our soil
ready to spring up overnight
and overtake us.
Maybe that is our fear
of those little spunky spiky suns:
their cheerful glow
belies their pernicious
tendency to own us,
heart and soul.
Harvesting
The kale’s
puckered sleeve,
the pepper’s
hollow bell,
the lacquered onion.
Beets, borage, tomatoes,
Green beans.
I came in and I put everything
on the counter: chives, parsley, dill,
the squash like a pale moon,
peas in their silky shoes, the dazzling
rain-drenched corn.
~Mary Oliver from “Rain”
~Mary Oliver from “Rain”
- rosemary
It’s Life We Harvest
…still it’s not death that spends
So tenderly this treasure
To leaf-rich golden winds,
But life in lavish measure.
No, it’s not death this year
Since then and all the pain.
It’s life we harvest here
(Sun on the crimson vine).
The garden speaks your name.
We drink your joys like wine.
~May Sarton, from “The First Autumn”
Is there something finished? And some new beginning on the way?
I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts…
~Carl Sandburg, from “Falltime” and “Autumn Movement”
I praise the fall:
It is the human season. On this sterile air
Do words outcarry breath: the sound goes on and on.
I hear a dead man’s cry from autumn long since gone.
I cry to you beyond upon this bitter air.
~Archiblad MacLeish from “Immortal Autumn”
Heart of a Pansy
(pansies pictured are above Bellingham Bay on the Performing Arts Center Plaza at Western Washington University)
Nobody can keep on being angry if she looks into the heart of a pansy for a little while.
~L.M. Montgomery
The world is in sore need of a cure for the grumbles.
Fortunately, it exists right outside in our back yards, along sidewalks and in vacant lots.
A cheerful face is irresistible to all but the crabbiest among us, guaranteed to bring a smile every time.
Beyond the obvious charm exists a depth of heart — roots able to thrive in the thinnest of soil, at home among rocks and weeds, resilient even when tromped on.
We carry its seeds on the tread of our boots in spite of our grumbling and help spread the good news: anger left unfed will dry up and blow away.
Yet the constant heart of the pansy will last. It smiles back.
Let Them Be Left
What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness?
Let them be left,O let them be left, wildness and wet,
Long live the weeds and the wildness yet.
~Gerard Manley Hopkins from “Inversnaid”
Maybe I identify with weeds as I too have grown a bit “excessive” in mid-life, growing unnecessarily and a bit fluffier than I need be. Maybe I admire their ability to thrive where they land, resilient through all sorts of trials and deprivation. Certainly they deserve appreciation for their wildly unique characteristics and their perfect imperfections. Once I get to know them, their beauty brings me joy.
I can only hope I too can be left, my over-proliferation shown grace, my greediness granted mercy.
In nature, nothing is perfect and everything is perfect.
~Alice Walker
…if the simple things in nature have a message you understand,
Rejoice, for your soul is alive.
~Eleanora Duse
Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.
~A. A. Milne
…make no mistake:Â the weeds will win; nature bats last.
~Robert M. Pyle
Always Summer
The serene philosophy of the pink rose is steadying. It fragrant, delicate petals open fully and are ready to fall, without regret or disillusion, after only a day in the sun. It is so every summer. One can almost hear their pink, fragrant murmur as they settle down upon the grass: “Summer, summer, it will always be summer.”
~ Rachel Peden
And so it always will be summer when one lets go in the midst of brightness when all is glorious. No cold winds, no unending days of rain, no mildew, no iced walkways, no 18 hours of night every day, no turning brown with rot.
Serene and steadying — with so much brevity.
Let me be strong and serene through all seasons rather than letting go at the height of delicate beauty. Let me thrive steady through the hard times rather than withering at my peak. Let me age, let me turn gray, let me wrinkle.
It may always be summer — someday — but not yet. Not here. Not now.
Barnstorming 