Old Gousty August

213 :: Always Acorns

I’m catching up on photos from this glorious month, and I’m going to let Mary Oliver do the talking tonight . . .

216 :: Legos

In Blackwater Woods
By Mary Oliver

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

and long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

214 :: In Forest with Book

211 :: Giant Sandbox

212 :: Young Artist at Work

215 :: Flying with Uncle James

217 :: Meditation

217 :: Dark and Sunny Woods

218 :: Hers

219 :: Visitor

226 :: Nearing Dusk

227 :: Old Gousty Stump House

224 :: That Morning Light

224 :: Monitoring

226 :: Those Hands

226 :: Nasturtiums

227 :: Little Gousty Library

228 :: Cousin Love

228 :: Bud Buddies

222 :: August Glow

225 :: Papa

225 :: Water Cousins

229 :: Berry Hands

229 :: Berry Girl

229 :: 35 Pounds of Talk

229 :: Family

A Visitor in My Own Garden

221 :: More Nasturtiums

226 :: Arugula

when I picked this arugula
I had no idea
there were acorns involved,
stacks of dishes
and tomatoes.

it was unclear if the yellow ones were ripe.
were they a new variety?

I usually forget to label the plants
when I put them in the ground
and I have to return to my notebook
filled with notes on seed starting
mixed with lists
of tomato varieties
and basil in the same tray –
a few poems between the lines,
and smudged ink from tears

knowing I was planting the seeds
of tomatoes he would
never taste.

226 :: Long Day

226 :: Fuzz Head

Dusk

220 :: Dusk

it’s the color of dusk
when I am captive
on the bed with a nursing toddler
who won’t let go of my breast
and who won’t let go into sleep
because the world is too full
of wonderful things
and he says “turn off the light”
but there is no light on
to turn off –
only the soft glow of blue dusk
filling the room,
begging for a poem,
calling me to write
before I am claimed by dreams
and night

Boy and Currents

196 :: Boy and Currents

Yesterday I felt so sure.

I stood there, in the morning kitchen light,
taking photos of him,
holding currents.

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
holding currents.

The Smell of Forgiveness

195 :: Garlic Harvest

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
underground,
offering at last
in deep summer,
the smell of forgiveness.

July Abundance

191 :: Gathering

I have a tremendous amount to say about flowers in July – and most of it comes out in the form of poetry and photographs.

192 :: Flowers for Sale

this day selling flowers at the art fair
thanks to Grandmommy
because my head was too full of house project lists to think about
flowers
but flowers –
what could be more important than flowers?

201 :: Calendula

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
for you.

And you will carry it
in your pocket
all winter long,
dreaming of sunshine
as you smooth summer into your skin.

188 :: Calendula Harvest

199 :: Rose Petals

I’m saving them for you.
why?
because they are my givingness:
so unprotected,
safe,
and having all I need.

Remember the wild rosebush?

Morning Mist

193 :: Morning Mist

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 —
hide
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
of me,
knowing so little
about who you were
and who I would need to become
to be your mother.

And, oh,
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
surrounding us.

I see you
even
in the morning
mist.