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
Sometimes I just wander around in the garden and marvel. And sometimes we bring some of what is outside, inside. And wonder.
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
We woke up to rain and fog and went on a little adventure to Carolyn’s cut flower farm, to pick some of her spectacular peonies.
Late, full blooms. Marshmallow blossoms. Chubby toddler fists. Summer happiness.
My poppy muse has appeared,
her dwelling place.
Late to bloom,
long to stay
with petals open
into tomorrow together.
Because we know it won’t last much longer.
And because when the house is a mess, this is the best place to be together.
With many thanks to Boppa and Uncle Scott we moved the greenhouse to its new fall and winter home. Ellen is giving it a thorough washing before we fill it with lots of compost and plant it with greens. This will be our first year attempting to grow in all four seasons in Northern Michigan! Jeffrey and I were inspired by listening to a podcast with Elliot Coleman, and now here we go on our first winter gardening adventure . . .