The Apple Tree

259 :: Growing Together

I let my hands travel
over the layered trunk in winter
and stood breathless
under her blooms in spring.

Carried home a handful,
wrote in their company,
returned in the rain.

I cried hot and bedraggled
tears falling to join a carpet of petals,
the blush of pink at my feet.

Flowers lost forever.

Weeks later, she called me back
in an early morning mist.

Overwhelmed in my wet, green boots,
taken with her swelling,
witnessed only by the forest edge,
I asked a lonely question —

273 :: My Apple Tree

she answered in fruit.

278 :: Apples

The Garden, In August

228 :: Marigolds

Wer seines Lebens viele Widersinne

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth—
it’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration

where the one guest is you.
In the softness of evening
it’s you she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.

Rilke’s Book of Hours Translated by Joanna Macy

228 :: Beauty Yellow Nasturtiums

228 :: Green Tomatoes

228 :: Pumpkins

Sometimes I just wander around in the garden and marvel. And sometimes we bring some of what is outside, inside. And wonder.

227 :: Flower Palette

233 :: Her Herbs

Stolen Roses

195 :: Stolen Roses

Not all, but a few
were stolen.

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,
waiting
for the pink wild roses
to bloom in their close-to-the-ground,
almost secret sprawl.

Roses stolen,
thorns and all
embedded in my finger tips,
a blood red effort I will remember
each time we drive past
next winter
in white.

Poppy Muse

174 :: Poppies

My poppy muse has appeared,
June evenings
her dwelling place.

Late to bloom,
long to stay
with petals open
and falling
into tomorrow together.

Magic

148 :: Bird

“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?

SCHOOL

126 :: Bubbles

SCHOOL

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!