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!

Marsh Marigolds

120 :: Marsh Marigolds

With What Hope

did you write your way into paradox,
trapped there
hands lit by thorns
and the creek
holding marsh marigolds under pines
unimaginable last spring?

These footsteps,
this passageway over the swale
where willow tips reach upward,
gather the sap of earth
running deep
and visible as soon as we arrive.

Do we belong here?

Merely by walking with bare feet,
earth opens,
and what’s within comes without
vulnerable, exposed,
life giving?

In her generosity
she makes herself susceptible
to contamination.

Everything comes to drink with
muddy feet,
a winter’s worth of thirst,
parched lips –

and still, she flows.

Seeding

117 :: Seeding

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