Now the bare earth, the sparse and yellowed leaves
Dwindle away in this first wind of fall
Wither as never in summer, when they all
Lay parched and panting palely in the heat
Of sun-bleached August.
Nasturtiums now shrink prostrate, here and there
Flares up one last defiant bloom of orange
Black hanging rot creeps upward without pause
Beneath the burning balls of dahlias.
Hyssop to purge the stiff and chilling earth,
Great basil spreading,boldly green and staunch,
Warm dusty sage that savors of the hearth-
A candelabra hedge of lavender
Stoops gray and hunched.
Kneeling to pull the brittle tubes of allium,
Nigella, with its brown and lacy globes,
A fragrant spray of pink attar of roses
Brushes my cheek; I pause to breathe the fresh
And minty breath of purple agastache.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Saturday, March 26, 2016
Minutiae
He only wants one.
A single lettuce seed, one golden brown speck shaken from the packet into his hand. "Will it grow in this?" Little wooden vase, as tall as my thumb, fresh from the lathe.
I love him for his rapt reverence, his careful fingers as he plants it.
The wonder as it rises, wee green curl like a baby's finger above its circlet of earth.
I love him because he loves it for what it is, tender speck of life tottering out of the dark soil, and never thinks of what it might become- root-bound, spindling, a salad on his plate.
Two years ago, when he planted the lemon seed, only one, and told me it would become a tree, I never envisioned the tree that sits in our window now, cherished like a firstborn child. "In a few years, we may have lemons", he says, and I believe him, knowing he would love it still, lemonless because it was a seed tossed from the kitchen which some strange alchemy of earth and his tenderness have quickened to vigorous life.
I love him for the lavender seeds from his grandmother's garden, folded gently in moist paper towels, cradled in plastic, carried in his pockets, close to the heat of his body. "They need warmth to germinate." The seedlings, dead two months later in their little pots, are forgotten when I remember the magic of those tiny white sprouts lying on wet paper in his hands.
Tonight, cutting brush in the clearing, an impossible spring day in February, we pause and look up. Beyond the low, rusting roof of the barn, great swaying tufts of pine arc into the sky, backed with the rose and gold of the sunset glittering through them, the sky fading to blue above them. Our hollow of matted grass circled by its tangle of trees and rotting fence posts is shadowed and intimate below this breathless, windy loveliness of the treetops and Western sun.
"Do you have your camera?", I ask him. "I'd like a picture."
He stands there, head back, still watching. "We have a picture", he says. "We don't need a camera."
A single lettuce seed, one golden brown speck shaken from the packet into his hand. "Will it grow in this?" Little wooden vase, as tall as my thumb, fresh from the lathe.
I love him for his rapt reverence, his careful fingers as he plants it.
The wonder as it rises, wee green curl like a baby's finger above its circlet of earth.
I love him because he loves it for what it is, tender speck of life tottering out of the dark soil, and never thinks of what it might become- root-bound, spindling, a salad on his plate.
Two years ago, when he planted the lemon seed, only one, and told me it would become a tree, I never envisioned the tree that sits in our window now, cherished like a firstborn child. "In a few years, we may have lemons", he says, and I believe him, knowing he would love it still, lemonless because it was a seed tossed from the kitchen which some strange alchemy of earth and his tenderness have quickened to vigorous life.
I love him for the lavender seeds from his grandmother's garden, folded gently in moist paper towels, cradled in plastic, carried in his pockets, close to the heat of his body. "They need warmth to germinate." The seedlings, dead two months later in their little pots, are forgotten when I remember the magic of those tiny white sprouts lying on wet paper in his hands.
Tonight, cutting brush in the clearing, an impossible spring day in February, we pause and look up. Beyond the low, rusting roof of the barn, great swaying tufts of pine arc into the sky, backed with the rose and gold of the sunset glittering through them, the sky fading to blue above them. Our hollow of matted grass circled by its tangle of trees and rotting fence posts is shadowed and intimate below this breathless, windy loveliness of the treetops and Western sun.
"Do you have your camera?", I ask him. "I'd like a picture."
He stands there, head back, still watching. "We have a picture", he says. "We don't need a camera."
Easter
"I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia."- C.S. Lewis
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