Continue reading “the kitchen Madonna”
Category: flora
fast food
there’s a good spot nearby:
garden-to-mouth / raw, whole foods
served forage-buffet style
and trepadeira pepper
Continue reading “fast food”
on Christmas eve
i traveled a river of concrete in a machine,
you traveled an ocean of air in a machine,
babies crying, inconsolably, you said
i said, eustachean tubes aren’t meant for 30,000 feet.
i am not meant for this,
neither are you,
neither are they.
not the opposite of joy
on Christmas eve
but the false pursuit of it
whatever is actually contrary to it
even if we don’t know it when we see it.
even if we refuse to know it when we see it.
if i allow myself to cry, he will see it on my face.
Continue reading “on Christmas eve”waiting for the bough to break
i am waiting for the bough to break — or, to be severed by proxy at my behest.
earlier this week on my daily walk-about, i noticed that a primary limb, the major artery, on a nearly 80’ tall and likely nearing 100 years-old, elm tree on the land i occupy, had cleaved and that the fracture was migrating down into the trunk — and dangerously so.
i don’t know the cause: if it was the abrupt shift in temperature to freezing here in southwest Michigan — or, if the tree was stressed from a standing-water-wet spring followed by a very dry summer, or if “it” is simply at the end of their life — all the elms here had unusually held onto an abundance of their prolific leaves until the fourth week of November.
no matter.
the matters:
the massive limb of the elm stretches high and precariously over the old barn, and depending on the wind direction, there’s a chance if it falls, it could clip the back of my house or take the whole tree down with it.
i await the tree surgery & removal crew. i am at their and the northerly and westerly gusts’ mercy.
in the meantime, i have also been wrestling with the possible choice of whether to have the crew amputate just the cleaved limbs — if the tree is in fact salvageable — or, to remove the entire tree at once instead of forestalling the inevitable.
Continue reading “waiting for the bough to break”breathwork
imagining cocoons of
luna moths
in every furled and fallen
leaf
i use all my breaths
to counter the Wind
who wants to roar them, all,
away
Continue reading “breathwork”
Hope
one can tell a little
maybe even, a lot
about what “hope” means to someone
as the garden’s fruits and blooms
are winding down,
on verge of frost,
light or hard
in October
will they glean the last remnant of the apples and pears from the trees for sauce, butter or crisp
or will they leave them be
for
the deer,
rabbits
raccoons,
possums
or marmots
will they cut the last of their garden’s
snapdragons, borage,
zinnias, marigolds, amaranth
and bring them indoors to fill vases for their temporary gaze
or will they leave them be
that,
an errant
monarch,
red admiral,
honeybee,
moth
or hummingbird
may find
a hibernation,
migration,
or last supper
meal
a sweet sustenance
an oasis lifeline
a traveling mercy
asters, monarchs & crone
i offer purple bouquets
rooted in the ground,
not dying, wasted, in vase or pot
this purple
reflected in your eyes, my eyes
monarchs married in our october gaze
we’re not long for this world, we, monarchs, asters, and crone
still, we feast, without any gluttony, waste or fear
one of us, prepares for honeymoon flight to Mexico
where marigolds and death await
later, birds with bellies filled by aster, will seed a known, unknown future
crone’s eyes full and clear, she sees it all, near and far, past, present, future, winter and spring
she is rooted too, laughing and grieving in the threshold
between death and the future, future and the death
between remnant wild and final ravagement
between time and anti-time
thousands of purple petals cascade from her crown chakra like asters //
Continue reading “asters, monarchs & crone”
the reincarnation of sylvia plath
this was the summer of
broken limbs on trees, animals — and men
this was the summer of
the fuck-it, no-good vegetable garden
this was the summer of
“not this year”, “but, maybe next,” — again
this was the summer of
the i-still-can’t-believe-she’s-dead birthday
this was the summer of
nesting swallows, wicked sparrows, and a fallen starling nestling, whom she fed, and kept in her pocket for future starlight
this was the summer of
hanging baskets heavy with rainbow gazanias and pots full of midnight black petunias — for balance — incessant dead-heading and concrete stains, a small price
this was the summer of
the blue serpent; of serpentine bracelets and of the serpent-printed dress — she to be photographed on this land with the flowers, the dog and the bird, like Frida
this was the summer of
first-realizing she may be the reincarnation of the spirit once-embodied in
Sylvia Plath
photo: Eric Stahlberg, 1954
mortality
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 