Category Archives: poetry

Only the day and I are here.

my garden, other gardens, poetry, time, , ,
The glory of 2020

When I was at Pippin’s I got to help water her garden, and pull ever encroaching forest ferns out of the blueberry patch. Many years ago she planted four varieties of blueberries, two of each, aiming for a harvest that would stretch from one end to the other of the season, and they mostly are growing and spreading, and bearing fruit.

She had recently taken her dahlia tubers out of winter storage and planted them inside the deer fence; they were almost all coming up. Often I have visited in September, for Ivy’s birthday, when those flowers are in their glory.

Four years ago I visited their homestead in this month of June, and it’s interesting to see my pictures of different plants and activities from back then. I don’t know yet when I will be able to return….

The glory of this day

Anyway, I drove home yesterday, and immediately went out to water the potted plants; the mock orange is stealing the show right now. I am thankful to have my own garden to play in.  Out there I can forget what month or year it is — or what century! — if only for a moment.

DEW LIGHT

Now in the blessed days of more and less
when the news about time is that each day
there is less of it I know none of that
as I walk out through the early garden
only the day and I are here with no
before or after and the dew looks up
without a number or a present age

-W.S. Merwin

Why a tree should be this sweet.

love, nature, poetry, ,

So far I myself have only encountered the black locust tree, and I understand that its pods are toxic. I think the flowers smell pretty nice, but I read today that they are blah, compared to the honey locust. I hope I will one day meet those honey flowers, too (the picture below I found online), but this poem is about more than just one delicious species.

HONEY LOCUST

Who can tell how lovely in June is the
….honey locust tree, or why
a tree should be so sweet and live
….in this world? Each white blossom
on a dangle of white flowers holds one green seed–
….a new life. Also each blossom on a dangle of flower holds a flask
of fragrance called Heaven, which is never sealed.
….The bees circle the tree and dive into it. They are crazy
with gratitude. They are working like farmers. They are as
….happy as saints. After awhile the flowers begin to
wilt and drop down into the grass. Welcome
….shines in the grass.

…………………………………….Every year I gather
handfuls of blossoms and eat of their mealiness; the honey
….melts in my mouth, the seeds make me strong,
both when they are crisp and ripe, and even at the end
….when their petals have turned dully yellow.

…………………………………………………………………..So it is
if the heart has devoted itself to love, there is
….not a single inch of emptiness. Gladness gleams
all the way to the grave.

-Mary Oliver

Existing in the middle is best.

food and cooking, poetry

THURSDAY

Because the most difficult part about making something, also the best,
Is existing in the middle,
Sustaining an act of radical imagination,
I simmered a broth: onion, lemon, a big handful of mint.

The phone rang. So with my left
Hand I answered it,
Sautéing the rice, then adding the broth
Slowly, one ladle at a time, with my right. What’s up?

The miracle of risotto, it’s easy to miss, is the moment when the husks dissolve,
Each grain of rice releasing its tiny explosion of starch.

If you take it off the heat just then, let it sit
While you shave the parmesan into paper-thin curls,
It will be perfectly creamy,
But will still have a bite.

There will be dishes to do,
The moon will rise,
And everyone you love will be safe.

-James Longenbach