Salt

If you’re born with the taste of salt on your

Tongue, in sight of a treetop mast; you tend

To take the wide-angle view, catch the stars,

Explore the seas; and search out the ribbon

That fastens the firmament to earth.

Unending whorls of space, deep reaches

Of ocean clutch at me like the rumble

Of earthquakes. You who are ground

And sky and sea, remember me. I tremble

Like a blown leaf on damp trampled sand.

I am not the wave who washes all things

Clean nor the shore who reaches for the lost.

I am the seashell with its ear wide open, the

Blade of grass who bends to listen for the

Possibilities in every breath.

morning prayer by mary oliver

Morning Prayer by Mary Oliver

Every morning

the world

is created.

Under the orange

sticks of the sun

the heaped

ashes of the night

turn into  leaves again

and fasten themselves to the ;high branches--

and the ponds appear

like black cloth

on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.

If it is your nature

to be happy

you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination

alighting everywhere

and if your spirit carries within it

the thorn

that is heavier than lead--

if it's all you can do

to keep on trudging--

there is still

somewhere deep within you

a beast shouting that the earth

is exactly what it wanted--

each pond with its blazing lilies

is a prayer heard and answered

lavishly,

every morning,

whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy,

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray.

Early Morning Swim

From the glass house that holds

The swimming pool, we view

The slow roll of the seasons.

Yesterday the forsythia bloomed,

Today we’re etched with snow.

A jolt of blue erases the grey

Until we brim with the boldness

Of brass. The pathway to Spring

Is like hopscotch: two squares

Forward and one square back. I keep on

Throwing my one small stone until the

Chalk wears off and I leave for home.

April 19, 2014

I am impressed by the tongue that

Forms the sounds that make the words

That grant us conversation and the

Ability to call each other by name.

I am myself and no one else. I can

Account for only what goes on inside

My head. There are people who come

Close to being one with me but parts

Of them I do not recognize.   

We are encouraged to be individual,

Yet there is admiration for those

Who give up parts of themselves to

Benefit the many: the musician, the

medicals, those who search for God.

March 29, 2014

March was a repetition of January...bitter cold to the end. Today was my second walk to the garden patches. It is 47 degrees this morning and somewhat damp. We expect rain this afternoon. One hardy gardener was tilling the soil which can hardly be free of frost yet. Snowdrops still look newly born, crocus are starting to bloom and daffodils have pierced the soil. The thread-like blooms of the witch hazel would be better appreciated if last years leaves would exit.

Amanda and her church group leave Guatemala this morning after their weak-long mission trip. I see smiling children's faces on Facebook while the group was visiting a school. Looks like the kids really latched on to these foreign visitors.

Instead of Spring

One year, it kept on snowing

and spring failed to appear.

Ground floor entrances were

buried, so we skied in and out

of second story windows.

The only way to find food was

by helicopter or dog sled. We flew in

extra dogs to help keep the trails packed.

It saved a lot of wear on highways

and since traffic lights were useless,

we shut down all the windmills. We

special-ordered barrels and parachutes.

When seed catalogs arrived, we burned

them in the barrels to keep the dogs warm.

We kept parachutes wrapped in backpacks

in case we needed a doctor or hospital.

We never discovered where spring

had gone but after the melt and

after the mud, we found roses

and peonies in full bloom,

as well as grasshoppers and

red-winged blackbirds

in the fields.

Childhood memories: Nonsense Song

It was midnight on the ocean;
Not a street car was in sight.
The sun was shining brightly,
And it rained all day that night.

'Twas a summer's night in winter
And the rain was snowing fast.
A barefoot boy with shoes on
Stood sitting on the grass.

....It was evening and the rising sun
Was setting in the West.
The little fishes in the trees
Were huddled in their nest.

While the organ peeled potatoes,
Lard was rendered by the choir.
While the sexton rang the dish rag,
Someone set the church on fire.

"Holy Smoke," the preacher shouted,
And in the rush he lost his hair.
Now his head resembles heaven,
For there is no parting there....

Treats of the day:

Amazing Grace by the Anntrim Mennonite Choir - there is something magical about familiar hymns done by a choral group - comfort hidden in deep early memories.

and

fresh summer vegetables dipped in artichoke/spinace hummus

February

February is a month of blizzards.

Snow roaring in like wildcats from

the mountains looking for anything

to devour.

Snapped power lines send us

back to zero before the birth

of fire and light. My sanctuary

is a prison.

I age another year in February

in a fever of confinement. Lost

in books of places I will never

see.

I could tolerate winter if it

were boxed into February

and March began the dance

of spring.

Dogs Should Always Pee on Flowers

Dogs should always pee on flowers,

never on the jarring metal signposts

that multiply around each corner or

on the wooden slats that chute the

cars in place. Their tender toes must

always whisk the grass and stay away

from asphalt. And if they want to

dig, it must be in the tended mulch

that holds the blooms for with

the least excitement, they can

send it skittering across the path.

Dogs should always head for walkers’

ankles and snuff their noses at each

person’s private smells and work at

tangling their leash with others.

Downsizing

In my dreams, I am always clearing

out the cellar. Throwing away the

good things with the bad as I am

annoyed with how long they have

been there. What will we do with

all the stuff before the new owners

move in? We didn’t really move

that often, but when we did

it was life threatening. No

matter how many layers we

peeled off, there were still more.

I would love to walk through

life unencumbered but it is

not to be. I crave too many things.

So I accumulate and let go

over and over again. Even now

I wonder if I should leave all

my treasures in place for my

children to dispose of or shall

I shrink my possessions down

gradually until I am ready for

my smallest home. 

Winters without snow

mean color challenged days

of deforested ambition, a

gaunt and dampened mood.

No star-struck bits of lace

to crystallize attention

and liven up the view.

No silent print of fox who

journeyed through the quarry

secretly at night.

Instead, a plainsong chant

with poverty of pitches

like bumblebees in flight

and colors that recall old

mushrooms decomposing

along the carriage road.

Such winters never grieve

at leaving us uncovered

and shivering in the cold.

Unhinged

The Lord is my seatbelt but it’s up to me

to wrap it around myself. The Lord is a

self-defense course for my granddaughters

but they must show up for the classes. The

Lord is a peace table for the world but we

have to make our way to the seats.

There are no more swords and shields and

bucklers, just the stealth of unmanned bombs

sighted by silent computers. Sometimes

I yearn for an old-time thunderbolt to hurl at

unthinking drivers round about me or a parting

of the seas to swallow up the rude;

or maybe five smooth stones and a slingshot.

I do not go daily into the fray any longer so

it’s hard to find my enemies, but I know they

are out there searching for unguarded moments.

Maybe we could find a way to use dark matter

to hide us from the unmannerly and the unhinged.

The Ides of June

The petals are sodden,

edges frayed—stigma

shriveled like melted wax,

stems falling in heaps—

blurring my memory of

June flowers.

Long drafts of rain and

overcast skies have shrunk

the joys of aerating, mulching

and appreciating my garden

and brought us back to

overcoat weather.

In these last decades of life,

dark evil thoughts fill my

brain at the loss of each

summer day that should

have been—each sunlit hour

that never came.

Busy Little Sparrow

A busy little sparrow is neatening

up my yard again, nit-picking

tiny fits of fluff, housekeeping

miniscule debris from my

just-hatched garden.

This immigrant offspring, common

as crumbs on a sidewalk table,

makes herself at home in city

blocks and parking lots and in

my pocket garden.

Favored by God’s eye, discerned

in song and story, in thrall to

biology; she goes about

her preparations

for coming generations.

I stand en pointe waiting for the

comic sight of scrawny pledges with

open beaks and newborn notions.

As a keeper of plants, I have vested interest

in the propagation of species.

Stop Button

I’d like to freeze-frame

snap, click,

the perfect moments

of nature—when the

neon-yellow tulips are at

their smartest bent, when

the scarlet-red cardinal with

orange beak lands on the black

wire of the seed-holder, when

the blushing robin scrumps

up a wiggling worm—but nature

is never still.

It keeps

on moving and changing. Past

perfection—past lime lacy leaves,

pearlized blossoms and

rich red roses—past

deterioration

right on to

degradation. There is no

stop button. No way of

holding back the eventual

disintegration that always

follows life’s finest

hours.

Faraway Neighbors

The spirit of God extends around our entire earth, not just in our own neighborhood. Following the tragic earthquake and tsunami in Japan, the media showed scenes of Japanese people with hands folded together and heads bowed that seemed not unlike our own supplications. Our hearts extend towards theirs in mutual grief. A service of prayer and readings was held at Linden Ponds following the disaster and in our western way, we were able to join in spirit with this eastern country. Funds were collected for Doctors Without Borders in Japan. We live on an unstable planet and we see the results of this all too often. But out of disaster, comes miracles and we rejoice at the sight of a tiny baby rescued from rubble and families reunited. It was especially moving to see a Japanese flag displayed along with our own and to remember that Japan was a bitter enemy of ours when we were younger. That hatred can change to acceptance and understanding is testament that forces for good exist side by side with our darker elements.

Stargazer Lily

A Bouquet of Stargazer Lilies

What a sweet-smelling Valentine’s Day gift – and a forecast of warmer days ahead. The Stargazer is a hybrid of the Asiatic and the Oriental lily. Someone has evidently been working on reducing its past pungent odor to a more pleasant floral scent. This variety, meant to be a metaphor for innocence and purity, is white with a flush of pink and somehow reminds me of white linen. The rather longish buds are a delicate pink. As they open, each petal (there are six) appears almost pure white, developing tinges of pink as it matures. The petals show off with ridges of lime green down the center. The six filaments are also lime green and have bronze anthers. It is truly amazing to watch this flower change shape and color each day, finally fading to a soft white. Stargazer Lilies are named for their habit of facing the sky as they open.