Yesterday I felt so sure.
I stood there, in the morning kitchen light,
taking photos of him,
And here he is, filling the frame,
in all his baby, toddler, unselfconsciousness goodness.
But today, I don’t feel so sure.
I’m questioning the light
and how I spend my time,
and all this reflecting I do.
What do I do?
I stand here, admiring him
These three, helping me.
Bringing the garlic in again.
Another nine-month season of growing,
coming full circle.
Oh, I have so many thoughts about growing garlic. But this year, garlic speaks to me of forgiveness.
Taking a single clove from last year’s
soil and pushing it into the ground
just before winter
and hoping it will grow it into a new, full head –
come what may.
Through autumn leaves falling,
and snow storms,
and spring cold,
it grows silently
or maybe sits and waits
offering at last
in deep summer,
the smell of forgiveness.
Admiring his smallness.
Watching him be little and big
at the same time.
I have a tremendous amount to say about flowers in July – and most of it comes out in the form of poetry and photographs.
this day selling flowers at the art fair
thanks to Grandmommy
because my head was too full of house project lists to think about
but flowers –
what could be more important than flowers?
See the sunshine
captured within these glorious petals?
they will dry out
with all their goodness preserved —
and we will soak them in sweet oil, for weeks,
and squeeze out the golden essence
and combine it with beeswax
and pour it into a beautiful little jar
And you will carry it
in your pocket
all winter long,
dreaming of sunshine
as you smooth summer into your skin.
I’m saving them for you.
because they are my givingness:
and having all I need.
Remember the wild rosebush?
I see you there
walking behind me
as if you’d like to disappear
into the white mist with your black dog.
Let it swallow you up:
all your beautiful long legs,
curly hair covering
deep-seeing eyes —
if you must.
But, please, know this:
I will keep walking with you.
I will keep walking
right on through
the mistakes I have made
over the past 13 years,
since I carried you inside
knowing so little
about who you were
and who I would need to become
to be your mother.
my dear child,
I love you like the wind
on a soft summer morning
resting on the edges
of the orchard,
ready to blow away
the thick air
I see you
in the morning
I’ve shared this poem before, haven’t I? Here it is, again.
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
It’s in your dreams, you know.
This lilac love.
Her delicate fingers
playing fast and loud and long.
Ich bin, du Ängstlichen, Horst du mich nicht
I am, you Anxious one.
Don’t you sense me, ready to break
into being at your touch?
My mumurings surround you like shadowy wings.
Can’t you see me standing before you
cloaked in stillness?
Hasn’t my longing ripened in you
from the beginning
as fruit ripens on a branch?
I am the dream you are dreaming.
When you want to awaken, I am that wanting:
I grow strong in the beauty you behold.
And with the silence of stars I enfold
your cities made by time.
— Rilke’s Book of Hours
so many mornings
into a lovely
soft pink sky,
now I wake up
and watch the
in my mind.