that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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.

this is the silence
you sing about

echoes bounce off
the fragile egg
you hold
in one hand

sister bits
broken
at your feet

yesterday
owes you nothing

time pays for itself
each morning

tomorrow
waits for you
to color in the lines

growth is not
profound
but a function
of survival

there is nothing
to do

but listen

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Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night – join us!
Lots of work on my plate this week, but I will do my best to catch up with everyone…

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

icarus played the molten fool
at mother nature’s ball

and we watched with fascination
as he tumbled to the ground

holding our breath until the sun
returned the gold of favor

and i crawl through this dirt
like an old brown beetle

scarab girl
warmth seeker
latent love hunter

pulling weeds and pressing
white through old lace curtains

looking for a way to singe my
skin and dress my bones

as seed and root are married
in eternity’s hollow middle

i no longer feel the need
to ask permission

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

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life

.

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.

some i’ve known for years and others
i’ve yet to be introduced to

i’m walking down this road
that always leads me home

remembering faces and places
and voices long forgotten

whispers on wind telling tales
no one ever stops to hear

the white waving flag of
existential discourse

extend your hand
take my place
lend an ear
a shoulder
an old pair of shoes

this is the forest we all live in
trees and concrete and wisps

of tired translucent souls singing
songs less music than ballad

into the surrender of sky and grey
and blue smoke metaphysical ribbons

all these lost stories folding deep
into rivers and seas and oceans

returning later, much later
to rain down upon us

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

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the glorious

scent of life

is all around

you

.

We’ve had plenty of birds come down our chimney over the years, sparrows and starlings, mourning doves and mockingbirds, and once, a squirrel.

Rescuing the squirrel was a challenge, but with the help of my dad and a craftily formed cardboard and plastic tunnel, he eventually made his way outside. For the birds, I’ve developed a system that almost always goes off without a hitch, closing all the doors to all the rooms, (with the cats behind one of them) and opening the front door which is about 15 feet away from the fireplace. Then, I open the fireplace and wait. Almost always, after a few moments, the bird will fly directly out the open door.

When I woke up this morning, all three cats were sitting in front of the fireplace looking in, so I knew something was up. A few minutes later I heard the tell-tale scratching and saw a bird hopping around inside, but I thought it was a sparrow. It wasn’t until he flew out (in the wrong direction) and landed in the kitchen that I saw what kind of bird it was.

It’s not every day that you have a bluebird in your kitchen, and so, since my camera was handy and he seemed okay, I took a moment to snap his picture. I felt a little guilty, but who could resist?

What followed was a comical dance of him flying from window to window, (never quite figuring out which one was open), with me trying to scoot him towards the right one, both of us flapping and squawking, until finally I was able to trap him in a glass hurricane and lift him to the right spot.

And away he went.

He flew over and landed near the nest box and sang for mama bluebird, who eventually showed up. I’m fairly certain that their eggs are already damaged, the nest has definitely been tampered with, so I don’t think we will have babies this year. And this makes me sad.

But, I had a bluebird in my kitchen, and that made me smile.

Ordinary magic of the very best kind.

You gotta love life.