that's mrs. mediocrity to you

on a broken heartsick mandolin
behind this curtain of sunlight
some would call glare

her tears mix with dewdrops
her dress is mistaken
and the wind in her hair
makes her whimper
even as she nods in the breeze
at all sailors passing

just in case
just in case

beauty is meaningless
to a flower
folly prescribed by
obscure tradition
and those who destroyed
her ability to run

but she stands and she sings
and her heart is made
from one shade of golden

heavy ballast to keep her
grounded

ripe punishment
for hollow dreams
of dancing

.

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night
– a celebration of 100 weeks – join us!

I just love my garden. It’s a lot of work, but the kind of work that is so worth all the effort.

In the spring and summer, it’s my part-time job, and for the weeks that fall between Memorial Day and Father’s Day, it could easily be a full-time position. Early June is when it all looks best, peonies, allium, geranium, lupines, roses, columbine, forget-me-nots and bachelor’s button all in full bloom. The view out my studio window is filled with flowers. And green that goes on forever.

We live in a tiny house with a big garden. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. From now until November, I will be outside as often as I can.

But even working isn’t so bad when I can sit here with this window open, listening to the birds, smelling the flowers, watching the sun crawl its way across the sky. I feel blessed, and grateful.

Tending this garden never ends. But neither does the joy it brings me. (Well, okay, except for the sore back.) I’ve learned so much about life out there with my hands in the dirt, lessons I don’t think I would have learned any other way. And there is always something new to see.

Just now, my eyes are wide open.

slightly disheveled
always busy
growing (old)
setting seed
rambunctious and tenacious
in equal measure

filled with promise
and hope
possibility and time
overcrowded and
under the weather
(quite literally)

birdsong soaring
on time’s
cheap passing
the same every year
but different
every hour

ants moving mountains
and thunder
looming large
butterflies
and dragons and
wrinkly toad kisses

wasps building nests
on the promise
of tomorrow
always at the ready
to sting you
today

drawn to the scent
of life lived hard
open and blooming
too enamored of the sun
to strive for anything
resembling

perfection

Waiting until the right moment to open, the right day to bloom, the right time to stand tall.

Then again, we don’t always get to choose, do we?

Sometimes, it all happens when we least expect it, the sun comes out, temperatures rise, flowers burst into blossom, petals age and wither.

And then the cycle begins again.

Tulips, like most other bulbs, can be forced. Give them a rest, a false winter, time and cold and then warmth and light, and they will believe their time has come.

This isn’t a bad thing, this is why I can have tulips in a vase on my kitchen table all winter long.

But tulips in the garden have to fight for their own survival, time it all just right, and hope that Mother Nature gives them a break.

They have to have the patience and the perseverance and the luck to make it through.

But then, when it happens, look how gorgeous.

.

this will be a day

spent outside

because

there is this sky,

these buds,

that green

and

because

i can

.

::

all

she ever

thought about

was

destiny

::

you never know
where life will take you

we like to think we know
or at the very least

can guess

but

we are born
with all the knowledge
we need and
spend the rest
of our lives

forgetting

each step brings us
a tiny bit closer
to understanding
that in the end
we know

nothing

because even in
the worst of years

the driest hottest
drought of summer

can bring forth
the perfect blush

of one september
rose

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Unexpected Poetics, join us!

dawn is the ritual of future
pink promise potential
to bury beneath
the quilt of day

in the silence
your eyes are silhouettes
the deep of between
with a hint of purple

vines become shackles
as you scramble to the top
turning twisting twining
green ropes to hold you

up to the sun as you sing
your blues to an audience
of arbitrary fascination
spinning false tales

in the spotlight

of sound

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!

This is me, most mornings, padding through my garden in flip flops and nightgown, camera or iphone in hand.

The same sky is always above me, I’ve traveled these paths thousands of times. The flowers change, a garden is an ever-evolving life force, and I’ve learned, over the years, that there is only so much I can control.

Another lesson that gardening has taught me about life.

We’ve been through a lot together, my garden and I – at this point, we feel like old friends. The same give and take is required to keep us speaking, we both know that we will always be there for each other, no matter what. We are comfortable with each other, whether I am singing out loud to Joni Mitchell, or sitting in silence to watch the sun set.

I put a lot of work into this relationship, and in return, I receive lots of flowers. Sometimes when I am least expecting them. And we all know that those are the very best kind.

When I sit on my patio, surrounded by plants and flowers and hidden from the rest of the world, it feels like a hug. My garden is not perfect, I see all her flaws from where I sit, but then again, she also sees mine.

We are always forgiving each other, always making allowances, always finding new ways to nourish her soil and my soul.

I grow here more than any of the flowers.

Trees I planted as tiny twigs now tower above my head. But our roots are intertwined.

The same sky is always above us.

The morning is still, so still I can hear grasshoppers buzz and crickets walk. Okay, of course I can’t really hear them walk, but you know what I mean.

Dew has covered everything during the night, there is no place to sit in my garden that isn’t wet, and so I stand, watching a pink sky fade into the grey of rain’s promise. A promise that has been made again and again this year, and broken just as many times.

And still, my garden grows, flowers being stubborn even in the worst of times. They have a job to do and they will do it, as long as there is an inch of life left in them. I have to say, I admire their spirit.

On days like this, I want to be the sky that embraces them, the soil that feeds them, the light that brings them hope.

Actually, on days like these, I want to be one of them, reaching, stretching, working to make the world a better place. Fulfilling a purpose, cycling through the inevitable cycle, breathing and moving, waiting and hoping. Drooping in the heat of the sun, and finding new strength during warm dark nights.

And then facing sunrise with an upturned face and blind optimism.

This past week, in my whirlwind of discarding, I found a book that I had started writing years ago. As in, 20-some years ago. I had completely forgotten about it. I’m not sure why or how I had so easily let its existence fall from my mind. It seems like you should remember something like that.

I had titled it Girl with No Flowers.

I haven’t had time yet to read through it, but I will. From an entirely new perspective of who I am and what I am doing here.

Because these days, I most definitely have flowers.

And flowers always grow.