Moments
and longer:
- shorts (condition and colour of legs bedamned) for third day in a row
- tulips unsullied by deer lips
- deer waking me up by thumping through the hedge to sleep on the neighbour's garden instead of ours
- the white lilac blooming after 5 years of niente
- Ballet Kelowna's "Affairs of the Heart"
- fresh, local asparagus in the market and my frig
- Bonanza Red marigolds - 1 flat (the image is a bit of a cheat but the colour is right on)
- these books: The Gin and Tonic Gardener; Weather Report; The Blue Hour of the Day; The Gospel of Thomas
- delight of a good Guzzi sale
- new hanging baskets
- 39 + 14 bags of garden refuse
- using Agnes as a stump-puller
- not burning out Agnes' clutch
- a lonnnnngggggg Spring
- piano practice
- small plans
Still breathing
- shorts (condition and colour of legs bedamned) for third day in a row
- tulips unsullied by deer lips
- deer waking me up by thumping through the hedge to sleep on the neighbour's garden instead of ours
- the white lilac blooming after 5 years of niente
- Ballet Kelowna's "Affairs of the Heart"
- fresh, local asparagus in the market and my frig
- Bonanza Red marigolds - 1 flat (the image is a bit of a cheat but the colour is right on)
- these books: The Gin and Tonic Gardener; Weather Report; The Blue Hour of the Day; The Gospel of Thomas
- delight of a good Guzzi sale
- new hanging baskets
- 39 + 14 bags of garden refuse
- using Agnes as a stump-puller
- not burning out Agnes' clutch
- a lonnnnngggggg Spring
- piano practice
- small plans
Still breathing
posted by Another Joan at 4:23 p.m.
1 Comments:
I was given a copy of "The Blue Hour of the Day" as a gift, along with Patrick Lane's "Last Water Song". Certain poems strike me at different moments, for different reasons.. Especially when I am feeling quiet and off-balance and slow and uncertain. This one in particular has a grip on my heart.
UNDER THE SUN IN THE DRY DESERT HILLS
WHERE THE RAIN NEVER FALLS IN AUGUST
(Patrick Lane)
In deep sand a beetle shoulders her way toward paradise.
A sunflower, wild with yellow, covers her with one shadow.
Among the grains of quartz, one bruised garnet, a cone of pine.
The beetle clambers. There is nothing like her in the world.
Almost blind, I get down on my knees.
My bare feet have the same soles they had when I was born.
My mother is dead.
Among many things I am alive. Still.
A single drop of water falls.
The beetle stops for a moment, but she does not drink from the salt.
There is somewhere she has to go and she goes on.
Mightily.
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