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.

310 :: In Her Hands

June Light

169 :: Bird Head

151 :: Chick Nursery

168 :: O Dandelion

164 :: Rhubarb

Even in the fullness of these days,
especially in the fullness of these days,
I seek out my desk.

167 :: June Desk

I seek out my desk and
I slip away to catch the light.

166 :: Conversation

I turn around and find it, everywhere.
Even when the day is overcast,
the clouds are heavy,

161 :: Spirea

my pants soaked from the long grasses,
my boots like puddles inside –

light like an abundant secret
in June.

162 :: Beginnings

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.

Wild Rosebush

99 :: Wild Rose Bush

I fell in love with this wild rose bush over the winter. Finding her was like walking into the promise of one of my favorite poems.

With the help of my loyal photo assistant, Ellen, I’m planning to take photos in this spot over the next few months and watch this rose unfold its “givingness.”

Sometimes it’s these unexplainable little projects that wake me up at night. And I have to follow them. I have to follow the calling of the wild rose.

Wild Rosebush

How it stands out against the darkenings
of the rainy evening, young and pure,
its tendrils arched everywhere in givingness
yet absorbed in its own rose-being;

the shallow flowers, already open here and there,
each unasked for and untended:
thus, immeasurably exceeded by itself
and indescribably self-aroused,

it calls to the wander, who in his evening
meditating comes past along the road:
Oh look at me, see, over here, how safe I am
and unprotected and having all I need.

— Rainer Maria Rilke

Landscape

361 :: This Landscape

“I think it makes a huge difference, when you wake in the morning and come out of your house, whether you believe you are walking into dead geographical location, which is used to get to a destination, or whether you are emerging out into a landscape that is just as much, if not more, alive as you, but in a totally different form, and if you go towards it with an open heart and a real, watchful reverence, that you will be absolutely amazed at what it will reveal to you.” — John O’Donohue

361 :: Serious Sledding