Tag: sunflower

A Swirling of Seeds

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I am here to modestly report
seeing in an orchard
in my town
a goldfinch kissing
a sunflower
again and again
dangling upside down
by its tiny claws
steadying itself by snapping open
like an old-timey fan
its wings
again and again,
until, swooning, it tumbled off
and swooped back to the very same perch,
where the sunflower curled its giant
swirling of seeds
around the bird and leaned back
to admire the soft wind
nudging the bird’s plumage,
and friends I could see
the points on the flower’s stately crown
soften and curl inward
as it almost indiscernibly lifted
the food of its body
to the bird’s nuzzling mouth
whose fervor
I could hear from
oh 20 or 30 feet away
and see from the tiny hulls
that sailed from their
good racket,
which good racket, I have to say
was making me blush,
and rock up on my tippy-toes,
and just barely purse my lips
with what I realize now
was being, simply, glad,
which such love,
if we let it,
makes us feel.
~Ross Gay “Wedding Poem” from Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude

For the last several days
I’ve heard an insistent tapping
at my kitchen window bird feeder.

A flash of yellow feathers makes the racket
drawing my attention;
I figure he wants the feeder refilled.

Yet it is full.

This goldfinch is wanting my attention,
not more sunflower seeds.

When I approach the window,
he wings off,
returning only if I retreat to the shadows.

Then his tapping resumes.

He can see me in the shadows,
watching him watching me.

I think he is simply enjoying making noise,
as his thanks for the feast of seeds
in a world of desperate hunger and despair.

So much like the good racket
we make when we sing in church,
thanking God when His swirling seeds
of love and care are bestowed upon us.

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No Longer Young and Still Half-Perfect

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Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the travellers journey is done.
~William Blake from “Ah Sun-flower”

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever
~Mary Oliver “Messenger” from Thirst

My boots are old and leaky and my coat is torn. I’m no longer young but I still go out into the world every day to find something to smile about.

A time-weary sunflower hangs its head to stare down at its roots, no longer able to lift its face to greet the sun as it rises or bid it farewell as it sinks into the horizon. Still very much alive, it focuses instead on where it came from, putting its energy into the seeds, to make sure there is a next generation, and a next and a next.

That is more than half-perfect.
That is its work in this world and that is my work these days.

Weary at times but rejoicing.
Withered and torn and weather-beaten
but still capable of joy and wonder that
we are so deeply loved as we are.

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The Twinges of this World

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sunflower8162

sunflower

butterflygarden5

Under a canopy of leaves,
the irises, bountiful,
the calico butterfly flashing

and this one golden head
of a dazzling sunflower grasping
its cowled neck,

outweighing its stalk

in order to turn,
full bonneted,
to the absolute light.

What wonders these are:
things struggling
filament by filament,

birds twittering in a laughter
that could be weeping,
barely feeling the twinges of this world,

where the weak get stronger
or snailish with cracks

a day at a time.
~Judith Harris “Recovery”

webleash

sunflower816

“Be patient and without bitterness, and realize that the least we can do is to make coming into existence no more difficult for Him than the earth does for spring when it wants to come.”
Rainier Marie Rilke

We feel the twinges of struggling to live broken in difficult times; indeed all our days are difficult times. We won’t get out of this predicament alive.

Whether we care or not about what happens next does not alter the fact Christ dwells with us; our heavy heads bow, turning to the absolute light. The coming of spring will not be stopped by a slumbering disinterested earth.

Like Mary, we must say:  “Let it be”, not “no, not me, not now.”

We are transformed, simply by accepting He has come on our behalf:
an oh so difficult faith that connects us like a filament to heaven,
like a shoot breaking through the crust of frozen earth to reach the sun in order to bloom,
like the butterfly emerging from its cracked chrysalis to try its wings,
like the snail shell abandoned because we will no longer fit inside its broken walls.

snail2

broken

 

Drunk on the Sun

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photo by Josh Scholten

“The happiest field in all the harvest is the field of sunflowers at their peak.
Drinking the rays and dancing in the breeze.
The saddest field is the same field, six weeks later.
Drunk on the sun and burnt with shame,
they drop their heads to hide their mane.”
― R.S. Barrington

Two months of no rain has been unprecedented here in the northwest.  We have been dry as the plains states; tractors raise vast dust clouds as they harvest the fields around our farm.  Finally, finally, precipitation is predicted in the forecast for later this week.

It has been simply too much for web foot natives like myself.  We are so inebriated from an interrupted run of perpetually sunny days, we are unable to take in any more, bloated with Vitamin D, sickened with shame at soaking in more than our allotted share of rays.  We are at serious risk of solar withdrawal when the rain starts.  I’m already shaky at the thought of gray clouds.  Shorter days and foggy mornings might bring on the dry heaves.  Hallucinations could include parades of multicolored bumbershoots multiplying like Mickey’s brooms in Fantasia’s The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.   Someone will need to detox us with a full spectrum seasonal affective disorder light to taper us down slowly.

Growing up here, where sun and blue skies is a rare intoxicating treat, I found myself in utter overwhelm in California during my college years.  It seemed impossible to stay inside to study, conditioned as I was to celebrating every moment of sunshine.  Who could hunker down inside with a book when the sun is out?  Where were the gray misty mildewy days on end sitting cozy next to a blazing fireplace, reading vicariously of other lands of milk and honey?

Okay, enough is enough.  We’ve had our run, we’ve had our fun, we’ve had enough sun.  We are exhausted and in need of reprieve.

Let the rains begin.

And all the people said, “Amen!”

photo by Josh Scholten

Apple Peel Breezes

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photo by Josh Scholten

“The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze.”
~John Updike in “September”