1.
on my desk two seedlings in a pot,
new leaves like soft hands to the sun,
a gift from a neighbour on the solstice –
a twining curcurbit that will hang with
seed-pod sponges come season’s end.
and now with the gift i remember
past years plantings
wild growing the fence closed
where the new peach now stands
long loofah like green miracles
expanding in the sun
and i know this land remembers
what i forget to know
remembers what we plant
what we sow
remembers that a garden grows good neighbours
remembers what it means to thrive.
2.
the rains and rains
and rains this summer
have fed the roots –
lifted green tendrils from the forest floor –
surged and pulsed with warmth
of sun made green manifest
until lost in the forest
paths once clear for the walking
become dew drenched skin songs
shoulder high leaf ecstatic
with the laughter of birds
shaking the trees,
until invisible
in the deep tangle
of all that is
we are no more
no more
3.
when drongo asks for cheese early morning
on the deck and i throw the morsels
to the new blueing sky, she catches them
impossible acrobat of the air between,
and flies off to her nest in the ragged tree
on the neighbouring hill
her black winged flight a speck
amongst the trees.
she knows this forest, despite
title and deed and stale thought
that divided the indivisible,
knows this forest can never be owned
or fenced, that we the living
bird human tree
are always and all-ways
one organism in communion
with the light that always was –
one tumble of voices
holding up the sky.
For Brendan at Earthweal’s Weekly Challenge – ben-bolcain
https://earthweal.com/2021/12/27/earthweal-weekly-challenge-ben-bolcain/
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