almost summer nowand days stretch, longerevenings gold and thick withlife open like a window in time – sunstained by berriesrasp and young, goose and strawi find myself, last light, in the gardenwith wattle and string in hand,scissors precarious in pocket, (and it is hard not to be in love herewith this soil this place this…
there is a cottageat the edgeof the woodsin it lives a womana woman a woman,more.it lives in womenthe cottageat the edgeof the woods. the herbs that hang from the raftersbunches of mpephu and nettleand tulsi, the roses that growa blood thorned tangleswoon sweet andspread on october cloths to dry,the bottled elder turnedby the light of…
1.the world deconstructs ustakes us apartuntil bone fragment and skin smear –we are identifiable as human alone,but our humanity exists in the worldwe have torn ourselves from.the one where a phalange in a cave in siberiais not enough to tell the fern soaked storyof lives lived in tree shadow,tell the stories between blood and waterbreath…
two nights of wind stormshave blown my fearless cover this morning the lightmoves quiet as a snakeand golden across the hills –illuminates tree by standing tree for now the wind has settled,silent and stripped barethe world wakes –my feet crunch brittlein the fallen leavespicking a way betweendropped branches small birds are counting their living,calling to…
morning and eveningoriole names the skyfrom the bare branchesof the rhus that stands tallbeyond the vegetable beds there is no knowingany more than thisthis daythis skythis moment. For Sherry at Earthweal’s Weekly challenge:Messages from the wild
we had stones and bones to mark the time, moons scratched on the doorpost counting months until birth until harvest, counting lean months until planting and none of it shifted but the ebb and flow of generations swirling the tide, burying the bones –ancestors and descendants of place lapping at the granite edges of…
friday evening finds me, eve of solstice oiling my spinning wheel adjusting the drive band and spindle whorl until the wheel turns true – the wood glowing warm by firelight.this wheel is older than i, felled from a forest in someone else’s backyard, continents away – worked and shaped and turned until the maker honoured…
in these times of rapid change and covid-19, with the youngest doing zoom for school, the lack of daily commute has yielded quiet mornings waking late to winter light softing the forest into focus. this morning came cresting the hill hot pink between black branches – we went to find the sun, my daughter and…
turtle dove calls down the evening from the fast shadowing trees in words soft round as a tongue-held raspberry, sweet in the mouth as a prayer of thanks for sun-warmed days and bare-armed dresses with deep pockets full of small ripe peppers and tangy greens plantain, chard and dandelion that taste of old words…
how did the cicadas know to sing this strange summer – two days of bare arms, melted cats and the loud growing of greens, tendrilled peas pulling tender leaves up the trellis. sunday brings rain and we turn once more to the quieting of the year.