Wild Rosebush

99 :: Wild Rose Bush

I fell in love with this wild rose bush over the winter. Finding her was like walking into the promise of one of my favorite poems.

With the help of my loyal photo assistant, Ellen, I’m planning to take photos in this spot over the next few months and watch this rose unfold its “givingness.”

Sometimes it’s these unexplainable little projects that wake me up at night. And I have to follow them. I have to follow the calling of the wild rose.

Wild Rosebush

How it stands out against the darkenings
of the rainy evening, young and pure,
its tendrils arched everywhere in givingness
yet absorbed in its own rose-being;

the shallow flowers, already open here and there,
each unasked for and untended:
thus, immeasurably exceeded by itself
and indescribably self-aroused,

it calls to the wander, who in his evening
meditating comes past along the road:
Oh look at me, see, over here, how safe I am
and unprotected and having all I need.

— Rainer Maria Rilke

Nearing Spring

73 :: Spoon Shovel

watching him work with a spoon
in the emerging mud

snow piles
melting down
layers of ice

ice once so hard,
impossible to break through.

Remember the morning we couldn’t leave,
couldn’t get into our car
covered in ice so thick, so cold
the doors frozen shut?

Remember the night we couldn’t speak
because there was so much frozen
to say?

That ice.
It thaws.

75 :: Pussy Willows

When we cut them
down in the swamp
the fuzz was nearly invisible,
still tucked inside.

Hiding.

Two days in the house,
and here they are.

Emerged.

Warmth does that.

January Morning

20 :: Into the Day

Oh, this morning. Breathtaking over the lake. The light. The way the clouds move. Misty blowing snow.

And look at her, taking him out early to let out the chickens, while I am still upstairs, just getting out of bed.

22 :: Feeding the Birds

Make Something, Mama

13 :: Juice

Every day, he says,

“I want to make something, Mama.”

as he drags a chair across from the table to the butcher block
and climbs,
stands up tall
next to me,
ready.

I’ve been making something
with a little person (or two, or three)
next to me,
every day
for more than 13 years.

Some days
it wears me out.
I dream about being alone
and uninterrupted.

But other days I stand in awe
of how this simple act
repeated over and over again,

alchemy in the kitchen,
in the garden,

has shaped their hands,
made my life,
nourished our family.

Born to Farming

1 :: In Our Greenhouse Together

The grower of tress, the gardener, the man born to farming,
whose hands reach into the ground and sprout,
to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death
yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down
in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn.
He thought passes along the row ends like a mole.
What miraculous seed has he swallowed
that the unending sentence of his love flows out of his mouth
like a vine clinging in the sunlight, and like water
descending in the dark?

The Man Born to Farming by Wendell Berry

Here we are, in our winter greenhouse, on January first. Unveiling the hardy greens that have survived the cold nights. This is the perfect place to begin our year together. Side-by-side. Grounded in home.