Not all, but a few
As I pulled the car over
onto the side of the road
and jumped out
my clippers in hand,
having watched this stretch of hillside for weeks,
for the pink wild roses
to bloom in their close-to-the-ground,
almost secret sprawl.
thorns and all
embedded in my finger tips,
a blood red effort I will remember
each time we drive past
My poppy muse has appeared,
her dwelling place.
Late to bloom,
long to stay
with petals open
into tomorrow together.
“In some ways poetry is most akin to magic. Every poem is a sort of spell.”
– A New Treasury of Poetry, Compiled by Neil Philip
Holding a tiny fluffy life in your very own hands is a sort of poem too, don’t you think?
You’re like a little wild thing
that was never sent to school.
Sit, I say, and you jump up.
Come, I say, and you go galloping down the sand
to the nearest dead fish
with which you perfume your sweet neck.
It is summer.
How many summers does a little dog have?
Run, run, Percy.
This is our school.
– Mary Oliver
I think Mary Oliver would have made a wonderful homeschooling mom . . . for dogs and kids!
With What Hope
did you write your way into paradox,
hands lit by thorns
and the creek
holding marsh marigolds under pines
unimaginable last spring?
this passageway over the swale
where willow tips reach upward,
gather the sap of earth
and visible as soon as we arrive.
Do we belong here?
Merely by walking with bare feet,
and what’s within comes without
In her generosity
she makes herself susceptible
Everything comes to drink with
a winter’s worth of thirst,
parched lips –
and still, she flows.
Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry –
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.
In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century’s streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.
Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.
– Muriel Stuart