I Don't Know How to Knit

It wasn't about taking her to

 my favorite yarn shop

to meet the fascinating

 Finnish proprietress. 

It wasn't about having 

a Thai lunch afterward 

across the cobbled street.

It wasn't ever about knitting.

It wasn't about me 

talking her ear off while

 I held her captive.

It wasn't about taking 

pictures of us together, then

 tagging her on Facebook 

so the world would know

I had the honor of spending

 the entire afternoon with her.

I didn't have plans to tire her

 with my latest poetry 

or ask for advice about

writing a book.

Even though the colors and

 textures of shelves

 bursting with yarn send me

 into kinesthetic ecstasy

 and sensorial bliss

I must confess - I don't

know how to knit. 

I wanted to be with her 

 to taste old soul wisdom,

eat satisfying words,

 touch a silky hand, 

and follow her gaze.

I wanted to be with her 

because I can't find any kindred,

unencumbered, uncluttered, 

spiritual direction and validation

to help me explore these new, 

 unfamiliar menstrual pauses.

I wanted to be with her 

because I'm hungry for keen

observations, reminiscent 

memories of childhood, and lively,

  sprightly humor teetering on 

the ledge between proper and 'im'.

I wanted to be with her 

because I don't know where to find

older women who tell catastrophic

 stories that leave me wondering how

they survived the pain, or how God

transformed it into eucatastophe? 

Where are the women who, 

while telling about

the worst part 

of a life altering disaster

don't mind pausing while I ask,

but then what happened?

Who’ll shrug and smile, well,

I'm not sure exactly what

happened after that, but here

I am. 

I want reminded

how the story ends, 

 —  because the middle part

gets knotted and tangled.

And I don’t know how to knit. 

My timing was off. 

Just prior to my invitation she had

purchased her winter’s stash of yarn. 

She knows how to knit. 

Grandpa's Boot Trees and Valise

I smother 

his boots and valise 

with leather butter 

and wipe wood oil 

into the interlocking

 pieces of his boot trees 

trying to make his

  memory live again. 

Putting words down

on paper is the only way

 to reconstitute a hydrated 

version. Let it stand. 

Crayon Alchemy

Give a child

two sheets of waxed paper

crayons minus their wrappings

a sharpener or potato peeler and

an iron you don't care about. 

Let down the ironing board

to her belly height. 

Give a child time to be 

an alchemist 

and a roll of tape. 

She will turn your window

into a stained glass rose 

worthy of the finest 

cathedral on earth.

You will remember

again how to sit still

and let the colors of life 

pierce through until

you worship. 

Pedaling Tandem on a One Seat Bike

I'm finally comfortable riding my bike fourteen miles without stopping.
I'm learning how to shift smoothly, right before I need the change.
I'm enjoying the trail, able to notice the flora and fauna -- while breathing simultaneously.
I'm no longer a heavy drag on Craig.
I'm not noticing any difference in my weight or body structure. This matters not.
I'm feeling the warmth creep into my muscles, and anticipate it.
I'm looking forward to that G-Spot on the trail. The part where sacred waits for me to return.

I always yell as loud as possible -- I LOVE YOU GOD -- with no hands.

The deer, eagles, mice, rabbits, slugs, and woodpeckers stop everything - concurring with holy silence.

Then He breathes on me his pleasure. I feel it begin on the top of my head. It drips over me like a
wide nozzled shower head, covering all of me.

I hesitate to confess -- my brain throbs in time with my swollen heart and tingling skin. My body melts.

Great sobs of joy erupt, enlarging my rib cage. Tears blind me. I can barely breathe.

It's alright, because in that place on the trail I find myself clinging to Someone else, a tandem tangle.

Here Be Dragons

say the ancient cartographers

marking dangerous places

outside familiar territory. 

Disasters befall adventurers

who dare to travel past 

publicly approved comfort zones. 

Green lights keep everyone safe. 

Tight fences keep bad guys out. 

Regulations assure and reassure. 

Airport security finds hidden danger 

before it grounds a plane. Our own 

FDA makes sure meat, and milk are pure. 

Right? 

I’d rather meet Linford and Karen

at the edge of the world, and face down

the fiercest, fire breathing dragons 

than live in a world where natural cob

homes are outlawed and destroyed 

and their builders put behind bars,

where by the book inspectors sign off 

on conventional houses that pass

but shouldn’t, 

where real estate agents persuade 

young married's to buy a house they

can't afford, hanging them upside down,

where raw milk from real cows

eating green grass is condemned, 

and cooked honey is considered safe, 

where pharmaceuticals try to corner the market

making herbal home remedies illegal, and give  

doctors plenty of free, questionable samples 

where the only remedy for pain 

or sleeplessness is a pill, and being 

disturbed or uncomfortable is intolerable.  

where choices to legally homeschool 

are trying to be taken away by a government 

that legally let me abort life, 

where pure cotton is loaded with pesticides,

and peanuts are grown in that same ground 

after the damage is done, 

where bleached, separated, modified, manipulated grain grown 

in lifeless, weedless ground is blamed for 

glucose intolerance in pasta, pastry, and bread,

where women ruin their eyesight with lash extensions,

deform their mouths with duck lip injections, and try to make

down there look like an airbrushed pubescent girl, 

where women think large lumpy breasts, rump lifts, liposuction, and 

facelifts are necessary for self focused happiness, and lovely brown skin 

dies trying to bleach itself white. 

Go ahead and cook your brains -- straighten your dyed, curly hair, watch TV until you forget how to converse, swing your marriage, don’t die of natural causes - let chemo and radiation take your last dollar and your last vista view. Throw away all your books, give up your guns, immunize your babies, get a flue shot every year, take fluoride on all fronts, soak your house in formaldehyde, let it preserve your body when you die, cover the ocean in a layer of plastic soup, melt the glaciers, buy another car, just try to poison the super duper yellow jackets, fleas, giant wasps, try to cure the lyme disease epidemic, let the government shut down, bake a turkey that lives with 20,000 others in a cesspool barn gasping for light and fresh air, eat tasteless eggs, and BBQ beef that smells like feces. 

I’m feeling partly paralyzed and completely confused by what is allowed and disallowed. Approved of and not approved of. It seems all turned around crazy. We're upside down, backwards, topsy turvy, and inside out. 

I want to be a dangerous expedition hungry adventurer who’s not of afraid going where there be dragons. I wish I could get ahold of one of those old maps so I knew what direction to head off toward.  

 I can’t, so I’m just going to follow Over the Rhine to Nowhere Farm, where they left the edges wild. 

Meet Me At The Edge Of The World could start the next revival, become the latest manifesto, start the newest trend. But it won't, because most people are more afraid of dragons. 

Peter Turchi's Maps of the Imagination: The Writer as Cartographer prompted this crazy rant. Don't blame him.  

I take full responsibility. I know this is badly written, but I am sooooooooo mad about the crazy things going on in our world. Forgive me if you want, but I'm not sorry. :) 

   

Taking the Waters at Soap Lake

Sunshine leaves

echoes of light

bouncing off 

healing water

cupped between

pentagon stacks

of baked basalt

lining hot
canyon walls

where table top

mesas remember

 silhouette reliefs

of the ancient ones 

who came
for healing -

taking the water

before we did. 

Locals ask if you're taking the water. This means soaking in it for health reasons, not drinking it.

Soap Lake has an ancient history we don't know much about and a more recent history.

Native Americans called it Smokiam, which means "healing waters" and Let-to-to-weints, which is said to mean "healing water springs." 

Be sure to stay at The Inn at Soap Lake. The grounds are lovely. 

Winter Wheat

It sprouts -

It cocoons -

It ripens - 

It dies -

  It gives -

life via 

berries ground 

mixed with water

leavened to rise 

 baked brown 

broken for bellies 

 hungry for more 

than bread alone. 

More than any other growing thing besides those plants and trees that somehow put down roots in pure rock, winter wheat gives me a big dose of courage. I know what it faces during the long winter, and yet it continues happily in the spring, hardened against what summer may throw at it. Hard red winter wheat is what I use for bread. Hearty bread. Soft spring wheat won't do. Grinding it and burying my hands in the warm meal brings a sacred joy. 

I just discovered Bluebird Farms Grain in Winthrop. My first order arrived - Rye, Farro, and Einka/Einkorn. Heirloom, ancient grains organically farmed. These are the innovative, brave farmers. It is a beautiful endeavor. I want to support them. Applaud them. Cheer them on. Curtsy. 

(This picture is NOT from their farm. This is merely dirt, not healthy soil. There was no life in it. There wasn't a farm house to be seen for miles and miles.) 

Culpepper Hill

Compared to cycling to the top Mt. Constitution on Orcas Island in the Puget Sound, or Adventure Cycling over the Cascades on the Northern Tier that starts in Anacortes and follows Highway 20 across to Maine, Culpepper Hill is a mere bump on the repurposed railroad tracks known here in Snohomish County as Centennial Trail.  

The trail is clean and well traveled by walkers, ramblers, roller bladers, roller skaters, strollers, wheelchairs, and equestrians. But it feels the most mileage from cyclists. 

On the Southend, it connects to several arterial trails in King County and beyond. On the North End, it is now creeping four miles past Bryant toward Skagit County. It ends for now at an historic dairy barn in a pastoral setting off Highway 9 North of Arlington. 

When we decide to go for a ride, we heave our bikes into the pickup and drive to one of the the trailheads 

The most I have ridden this summer is eight miles at a time. A few summers ago I made it on a seventeen mile trip. 

This Labor Day I asked Loverby if we could try going the thirty six mile round trip from the 152nd Trailhead in Arlington down to Snohomish. 

He thought accomplishing that before winter comes was a good idea. I could give you the Facebook status version and make it look glamorous, but it ended ugly - and we didn't take #selfies.  

A third of the way back my legs and arms started seizing and cramping. I tried walking it off, rested flat in the grass, and tried to massage them. Nothing helped. Craig stayed close by as I gimped along. Five miles from Culpepper Hill, I begged Craig to go get the truck and put me out of my misery. He urged me to finish what we had set out to do. He said, "Babe, if you can make along the flats to Culpepper Hill, it is all downhill from there. You can do it."

My mouth knotted and contorted in agony. Tears blurred my vision. Ugly groans escaped from the deep as I cried aloud for divine help to make it to the top of Culpepper Hill. If I could make it there, I could coast for five blessed miles to the truck. It wasn't pretty, but I made it. When we got home, I limped into a long, hot bath with generous portions of Epsom salts and took three Aleve. 

When we ride we hide our spandex underneath something. I also wear one of Craig's Carhartt T-shirts to hang over and hide my saddle overflow. The tractor seat shape doesn't fulfill its claims. 

Even though all my weight is distributed evenly upon my wide saddle, it still feels like I'm impaled on an upturned stiletto. 

We don't wear helmets yet. My braid starts unraveling like my courage by the time I'm one third of the way up Culpepper Hill. 

I keep seeing signs along the edge of the trail dedicating this portion of the trail to a member of a local cycling group. The story possibilities distract me as I wobble and waiver up this relentless five mile incline. This is a tough beginning for our thirty six mile round trip. 

They named it Culpepper Hill in honor of him. I start hating this man who probably crossed over to the other side cycling. He left behind all these colorful, tight muscled cyclist friends

whirring effortlessly up Culpepper Hill at great speeds. They politely call out, "On the left," so I won't wobble into them as I make what I think are discrete little zigzags. 

No matter the gender, a tight backside confined in black spandex cutting in front of me feels like a carrot I want to take a bite out of. 

Sometimes it's a perfectly synced pod of bright colors with lots of lovely black spandex hugging varied shapes of delicious derrières. Yes, the receding backsides of cyclists keep me peddling up Culpepper Hill. 

When they pass I pretend for a moment that we are just out of the gates at Belmonte - favored jockeys for the Triple Crown - in splendid colors urging our mounts on. We are neck and neck, but for only an instant. I fall behind by more than a nose. 

I'm on a bicycle ride, wearing no colors. You, you're a cyclist - head to toe decked in colors - splitting the wind.  

I want you to know I want to hang a rose wreath across your handlebars and put an ivy crown on your brow whenever I see you gathered on a ferry or in a park.  

I fantasize about setting up wayside stands to refresh you. I imagine destination dinners to celebrate another section crossed off your worn map. I research places that might need a cyclist hostel. I would give you my last crust of bread and let you have the only available hot water for a shower. I would set the tea kettle on and let you plunder my garden. I would make sure you had fresh sheets and the best pillow to make a bed in the extra room.

I follow your routes by lurking on your blog. I read and wonder about you circumventing the coast of Ireland - is it best clockwise? I ponder how many flats you fix a year. When I hear about hospitality in Costa Rica I yearn. I dream about feasting you on ice cream, bacon, steak, and homemade cinnamon rolls, but find you in the park taking bites out of power bars
and sports drinks. 

I like knowing you're out there pedaling steadily on some side road. I wish you'd stop and rest awhile with me - tell me your stories - because then I'd be able to watch freedom dance across your face and open road possibilities light up your eyes. 

Suck me tandem into your tailwind. Let me fly the last five miles down Culpepper Hill with you. I'll wear your colors. We'll make some other weighted down, panting, struggling soul want to keep our backside in view. 

Non Electric

Am I unplugged

or do these flashing

red breaker switches 

need flipped off 

to reboot my flagging

energy?

Hot current --

please flash lightning 

bolts through my flaccid 

lack of desire and make me

electric once again.  

Tree's Knees

I read somewhere

that in order to grow

to my birthright height

I must plant myself

in a grove of tall trees.

I chose a lush patch

of Giant Sequoias. I

might have made

a mistake - aimed too

high and mighty.

The warning said

never plant myself

in short bushes
or patches of small
trees because

I might

outgrow them

and become a target for

the elements which

will cripple me

and keep me
shriveled

and bent.
Staying short
makes me safe

but doesn't provide
sufficient blackmail
 to eradicate my
claustraphobic
bonzai phobias.
Adapting to survive
unrelenting erosion and
constant battering
by staying small

stifled my future grim --
 so I didn't go there. 

But this lush patch

of Giant Sequoias
 I chose keeps me

 under a shade canopy.

No matter how hard

I stretch to reach the sun

and catch a breath

of the clean air

they inhale

while they talk

and see the vistas

they see  -

I remain nose to nose --

with their knees.

They don't see me

down
            here.
            

Homemade Daughter

Her wedding dress

lays folded

finally finished

the last stitch knotted 

buttons on 

hem pressed 

waiting to hang

till it graces her 

lovely shoulders. 

It wasn't made in China

in a factory assembled 

by strange hands or

checked by quality control

before being shipped to 

the mall store. 

There were times 

my insecurity wanted 

it to be tagged and 

stickered and priced

sophisticated like that,

but I couldn't talk her

out of homemade. 

She picked the lace 

and floating silk chiffon

that layers over a weighty

silk satin skirt. 

"Mama, could you 

make it have a small

train and leave the back

open like this?" 

She doesn't know 

I couldn't make myself

use the hem stitch foot 

to roll the bottom 

easy and quick. I needed 

to thread the needle - 

slip stitching love 

five per inch. 

She doesn't know I 

pricked my finger, 

hoping no blood stains

remained.

. 

She doesn't know I

found the cat laying on 

it like the Queen of Sheba

nestled in a silk stole.  

After the wedding

guests leave he'll

unbutton the waist

that I button up 

before their vows. 

They prepare promises

to forsake all others 

and cleave to one 

another in sickness 

and in health, for 

better or worse, until

death parts them. 

I hate being left so they 

may do the needed

forsaking part. 

She doesn't know

she's taking 

my sunshine 

away. 

He doesn't know 

what it feels like 

yet, to be the moon. 

Pick a Posy

Pick a posy. Set the table
with mismatched china.
 Fold soft old napkins. 

Let wine leave stains
on white damask.

Let dropped petals 

lay until morning.

My five fingered acebia

latticed overhead
gives testimony -

you were here.

My favorite thing after a gathering is the morning after glow. Tears often fall at the memory from the evening before. I'm always grateful you actually came. Your essence stays. It is a gift. The reward.  

Daisy Paths

Bev gave Tessa a bridal shower. We looked out the window to their back yard and saw Jon, her husband, placing daisies face up all over the grass in a path to the still empty wicker chairs waiting for guests.

To Tessa, daisies represent uncomplicated, unsophisticated joy and happiness.

The daisies grow wild everywhere around here. They are free. They did take some thought and planning, some noticing, some investment, some time, and some follow through.

I think gifts like this bless the giver, the receiver, and those of us watching. The shower was sweet. Yummy food was heaped on the table, and gorgeous decorations were draped everywhere.

The gifts were thoughtful. There was intimacy. There were tears between young women who have been friends a long time.

But the daisies. Daisies made a mama and her daughter feel beloved.

It brought tears to my eyes. Jon and Bev have known Tessa for many years. They know she likes wild flowers and especially daisies. Our girls always said if we died, they wanted Jon and Bev to be their guardians.

Over the last few months, Tess more than once has said, "Man, I love that Jon Hatfield." Or, "I just love Bev, mom."

I'm grateful for good neighbors and good friends. And long history that says, "You matter, we are going to believe the best about each other and see this thing through till the end. And by the way - may I borrow a cup of butter or your staple gun?" Or, "We have an extra melon, could you use it?" Or, "Here, let us help you with that." Or, "Could we go biking or swimming or camping this weekend?"

The Crazy Neighbor Lady

The crazy neighbor lady
doesn't have twenty cats
but might as well have thirty
the way the carpet paths
between leaning book piles
look like they're shedding.

The crazy neighbor lady
doesn't keep her house
of chaos ordered well -
but she knows where
the sprinkles, paper
glue, and berry baskets are
for the neighbor girl
when she comes knocking
to play and do what she
calls ought which rhymes
with not, lot, and rot but is
really spelled a-r-t.
She goes, leaving glitter
behind, blessings left
to wink at me on the chair,
table, floor, and my hair.

The crazy neighbor lady
goes out early to
water flowers - and pick
a weed or two bottoms up -
with her uncombed
gray tresses flowing and
her loose breasts flapping
under a coffee stained
robe worn to shreds.

The crazy neighbor lady
garden walks in the golden,
guilt framed morning light
and lingers for a drunken
tete-a-tete with the blossoms
drinking dew straight from
the Master's still.


The crazy neighbor lady
scoops both cats off the
front porch swing, brings
a blanket and some tea - so
you may rest awhile
and beloved be.

First Day of the Week

I don't need a greeter

obligated by duty

handing me a bulletin -
proof positive
that visitors are

welcomed to this
inhospitable

business institution.

The microphoned

message is recorded, then 

podcast to the masses 

who don't listen. They
already know more about 

what's being taught

 than they know
 what to do with.

 It hurts my ears.

 I can't hear the voices

singing next to me 

because the music

 coming through speakers

drowns them out. It's like

a staged concert that

leaves the participants

stymied, mere spectators 

 confused about when

to repeat and repeat

words supposed to get

 the spirit roused enough 

to do some mighty work like

redecorate the sanctuary

or trade the empty pews

for comfy chairs. I don't

want forced to stand and

raise my hands by a worship 

minister who thinks that what

he's suggesting is the

best way to usher

our hearts into sacred

places.

I want to break bread

at my own table and pass

it to you - so you and the

person sitting next to you

have the chance to give and

receive from each other - 

maybe touch hands, 

whisper, smile, or

graze shoulders -

until it comes back

around to rest
 waiting empty
in the quiet middle.

I want to fill your glass
more than once
with sweet wine - 

tilting the sharp,
flat world
soft and round again.

I want to hear
why the tears fell last week
and listen while you share
 the blessings 

that rained down upon you 

in spite of them.

Let's gather round the piano

with the poet's smoldering pipe

smoke curling us together

as we sing four part harmony

into each other's lives.

Let's hold each other's

aching, full hearts tenderly -

and laugh at how futile it is 

to try to do anything
other than
be the beloved. 

Do It Outside

nap

eat

read

ride

- plein air

imagine

love

dream

sing

- plein air

watch

listen

whistle

hum

- plein air

harvest

gather

pick

dig

- plein air

fish

dive

swim

lay

- plein air

skip

jump

run

walk

- plein air

draw

weave

sew

knit

- plein air

breathe

swing

linger

fly

- plein air

Yes, I confess, a new french word just took my fancy. 

Berry Therapy

Mud splatters. 

Tears run. 

Houses wreck. 

Men rape.

Soldiers pillage. 

Girls rip. 

Water rises. 

Drought ruins. 

Crops fail. 

Floods roil. 

Wind whirls. 

Sun bakes. 

Icebergs melt. 

Lakes disappear. 

Holes open. 

Babies die. 

Love ends. 

Preachers abuse. 

Saints quit. 

Farmers cry. 

Workers won't. 

Honeybees die.

Soil withers. 

Guns kill. 

Boys steal. 

Siblings fight. 

Children starve. 

Horses founder. 

Whales beach. 

Factories pollute. 

Trash grows.

Oil spills. 

Banks fail. 
Schools unravel.
Stocks plummet.
Books languish.

Pesticides persist. 
Seeds mutate.
Technology advances.
News distorts. 

My heart quakes

with helpless futility -

So I pick berries for 

hope and sanity. 

Thirsty

You hold sweet 

water to my lips. 

I see myself mirrored -

the one you adore

in the bulging tension

quivering in ecstasy. 

The surface skin 

wants broken to 

release life giving 

goodness to me.  

Glenworkshop East 2013

I threw up on the plane in a 

little blue bag I borrowed from 

my neighbor, who I woke from 

sleep to save my honor and the 

necks and laps and seats 

in my vicinity. 

Brandy's smile greeted each 

and every one of us on the 

stone steps of North Rocky.

This smile greased the hinges 

on the door into the unknown. 

Inside, Tyler, Nicole, and Anna Joy

pointed me to a room where I slept 

until keys and cards and rooms were 

assigned. I left drool on the

blue couch where the light comes 

in the tall paned windows. 

My bas bleu bohémien 

teacher gave Montaigne 

much attention, leaving us

wanting more on every score.

She gave books out like prophetic

prescriptions, saying, "Do you know....?"

or, "You must read....." 

I don't know who midwifed and booked

our hungry hearts and minds better, 

Warren or Patricia. 

I left kisses on the lips of 

the bereft, cranky, recently 

widowed one, and 

the lesbian who came out of a 

long relationship straight. 

I wanted to leave hugs and kisses for 

the other single girls to unpack 

when they too opened their doors 

to an empty house. 

I saw a green shoot growing between 

stones, an impossible, inhospitable place

lacking soil. 

I saw kaleidoscope cracks in the 

sun roof over the library.

My thoughts twirled as I pondered 

them in the quiet octagon room 

set with round windows.  

I saw empty pews in the chapel and 

empty card catalogues in the library. 

I saw myself through the camera 

lens of a pair of loving eyes. 

I heard poetry, learned new words, 

heard words of life, wiped tears, 

and sang with friends old and new. 

I heard broken apologies and saw grace

returned. 

We celebrated new work being published. 

We hovered over silent auction offerings. 

We broke bread together. 

We raised our glasses. 

Tin whistle tunes haunted the halls. 

Songs and plays were pieced together 

like Sedrick's quilts.

Self portraits stared out at the crowd 

well pleased with themselves. 

I learned that I may write bad poetry and

immature essays, take amateur photos,

and piece a beginner's quilt as a starting

place, knowing that I will grow from 

here because I'm willing to be 

easy being imperfect. It's OK 

to try something hard, new, 

and keep on trying to master

 the mess anyways. 

We left with this one last imperative 

wedged inside a song -  

"Leave the edges wild."  

Framed Raw

Carol is in the Glenworkshop East Photography class with Michael Wilson. One of their assignments was to ask a stranger to sit for pictures. My reaction was to say no. But I had promised myself to say yes to opportunities this week - even uncomfortable, scary, disturbing ones.

I am always on the other end of the camera, an amateur who is learning to see. I fall in love with what I frame through the lens's eye. Being on the other end where a strange eye can examine me is uncomfortable. I wasn't sure she would love what she saw.

She didn't spring on me and start snapping. We conversed and learned a little about each other. I started trusting her when she led me to Mt. Holyoke's magestic library. She correctly intuited that it would be a comfortable place to start. The atmosphere soothed and relaxed me.

I wanted to put myself in her hands and let her capture the me that is, not the me that should be. For one shot on the window seat, Carol asked me why I wanted to clasp the pillow to my stomach. Wasn't it obvious that I should try to hide and cover my obesity?  She saw the natural light pouring through the glass roof onto my head.

When the shutter clicked I imagined God's eye winking at me, his beloved, just as I am.

Curtesy Carol Sybenga

European Starling

I saw a picture of a Europeon Starling on Maureen's Facebook feed. The bird wasn't black, disappointing, or disappointed with it's lot in life as one of the worst nuisances of the world. Every tip of every feather has luminescent tips of green, purple, aqua, pink, and blue. Peacock colors made it look photoshopped. Maybe our starlings have jeweled feathers too, but we don't have eyes to see?

You have luminous feathers too. I see them.

Make Summer Glad

Find wood, gather kindling, strike a match to crumpled paper. 

Toast marshmallows, squish them warm between two graham crackers and chocolate. 

Take the rain flap off the top off the tent to look at the stars. They are waiting for you. 

Sleep naked beside someone you love. 

Make a warm oven under the duvet where cold can't reach. 

Caress flesh and feel the cares of pavement, malls, florescent lights, traffic, and technology flee. 

Pump the coleman lantern. Marvel at the mantles.

Pump the coleman stove. Light the burner. 

Set the tea kettle to whistle time for cocoa, spiced cider, or tea. 

Touch a toe to the freezing water. Go in if you dare, but never skinny dip........alone. 

Stay awake until the coyotes howl and mourning doves coo. 

Listen for owls and wrestling raccoons. 

Stay bundled, cocooned in the morning until your bladder won't let you wait another minute. 

Put layers on. Unzip the day. Fry bacon. Boil coffee. 

Give morning hope and call the sunshine to breakfast.

Lay on your back with wild flowers and blow clouds across the sky. 

Sing to the fire, make it dance. 

Gather a bouquet of violets or willow leaves and dress the table.

Poke the wood surrounded by bruised flames and loose the sparks. 

Look for little people in hollow logs or under mushrooms. 

Listen for the silence to speak.

Let trees embrace your ache.

Let scents of pine and pitch and smoke soothe your anxious thoughts. 

Allow the quiet to cushion your heart. 

Notice the water lapping at the edges. 

Camp unencumbered. Camp uncluttered. Camp unfettered. 

Sweep the dirt if you must and clean your fingernails, but let go of primping and scrimping and limping. 

Swing in a hammock all day and accomplish nothing except daydreams.  

Seedling Volunteers

pop up uninvited. 

They sprout without 

being watered, fertilized,

or planted on purpose.

They don't write letters 

begging for support

or pretend like prayer 

is what they want more 

than money. Volunteers 

sprout because they 

grub stake themselves.

They c'est la vie grow and 

c'est la vie bloom, 
serendipitists with
 a c'est la vie mission 

to sway and wave and add 

color to summer's gold. 

Their bold conception

changes perspective 

leaving fields effectively full 

of perennial potential. 

My garden is bursting with volunteer babies this year. Foxglove, cranesbill, sweat peas, nasturtiums. They delight me with their boldness and tenacity. They appear effortlessly and make me rejoice and be glad.