The view from here (photos).

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The oh-so-autumn pumpkin display at Killdeer Farmstead, where we sampled teas yesterday.

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Misha, setting up those colorful tea tins, boiling water, being bearded.

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The sissy visit earlier this month, during which we wore each other’s scarves, ate zealously, drank at the local bar, picked out tiny pumpkins at Cedar Circle, and talked a lot about INTEGRITY.

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The photo taken the day we closed on our house, which actually wasn’t quite the real closing, but still we were happy, and afterwards we went to a barn to buy a guy’s old futon frame, and then he showed us his highland cattle, and the view on the top of the hill was stunning, and we like, almost kissed on the lips.

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New home hoop dreams. Suburban accents of our new home also include: 2 car garage, porch, vinyl, wood paneling, wood paneling, wood paneling.

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Sexy glass jars plus rosemary plus then I added the olive oil. Aaaaaand we’ll sell them with a cute little tag tied around their elegant necks around Christmastime.

***

These photos are a random smattering of what’s been going on. Not as photographic highlights (lowlights) from the past month include

packing things into cardboard boxes

doing yoga in the living room

threshing beans in the chilly barn

the return of celeriac

a lot of rain

listening to the Godspell soundtrack on high while Misha’s away

Cabot cheddar.

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“Summer Simmer” (summertime flowertime poem) (mine).

Summer Simmer

 

Soil air sky breeze

available now

no lease no

contract all

yours & always

open free &

more where

that came from

Jeez you’d think

we’d be cherishing

all this so hard

by now (picture

it: generations

of women

& men in love

with earth)

but no

we are shitting

on it more

than ever &

convinced of

the truth

of machines

You know

what I think

technology is

mostly harmful

also ugly &

expensive unlike

these patches of

black-eyed Susans

dancing from the base

of their stalks up

to the petals

in the fields

all around me

 

Poem of this weekend (poem of many things) (mine).

This Weekend

 

One red felt hat three pairs of boots three

pairs of fancy low-but-clicking pairs

of shoes two bikinis one Boy Scout

backpack one pair of light light blue

Levi’s mom jeans one white lacey

t-shirt three slips one long salmon

-colored nightgown one silk periwinkle

top seven pairs of stockings one pair

of socks with flowers on them one pair

of sparkly pink socks one tiny purple

apothecary jar three bandanas one jean

skirt that Jessie from Saved by the Bell

would have worn one black dress given

to a pregnant friend two quarts of pickled

radishes one red dahl maybe two dozen

elderflower heads one busting bag full

of dried wild mint three sunflowers now

blooming four iris stems in a lilac-colored

jar one thousand pieces of Israeli

cous cous one iced coffee in a big red

cup one hay fork two axes one double

-size cast iron griddle three checks

made out to Free Verse Farm twenty

pounds of strawberries two containers

of curried chickpeas one batch of basil

hummus one can of IPA six tins of tea

two tinctures six jars of no-cook

strawberry jam one goal scored

by Germany one three egg omelette

with scapes & onions one black fly bite

one phone call with sis one phone call

with Katie one phone call with dad

one shower two dirty feet four clean

pillowcases and one lightswitch switched—

 

I wrote this poem instead of taking a photograph.

What’s mine is mine forevermore

 

I cannot prove to you the beauty

of my days. I did not photograph

the whiteness of the goatsmilk

or the child of my friends

standing in the doorway

of the barn clutching at the neck

of a giant teddy bear.

I can only tell you all the flowers

that I gathered up this Sunday:

daisies and the buttercups;

asters and the rest. They stand

in crooked dignity

in a jar I’ve used for applesauce

and salad dressing. They haven’t told

me that they’re interested in being

known, and so I keep them

to myself, a self so very

skilled at keeping.

 

“Helluva Effort” (poem) (mine).

Helluva Effort

 

I don’t truss my chicks

before they’ve watched

the world spin by

for ninety days. I’m

all mussed up

with warnings wrought

by bigblack birds

with swollen beaks

that spout the speech

of ancestry. They eat

what I won’t bite &

squawk in tongues I can’t

commemorate except

to say: I came, I laid

my smallass down

upon the grass;

I did my goddamn

best to leave

a mark & then

I up & left.

in the grasses

Yesterday’s morning poem (mine).

Just your average morning shoving

 

three goatbutts into a bright blue Kia

then heading off to work. I drive

along the first branch of a river,

past brandnew calves, sideways barns,

and the sign that reads FROST HEAVE

AHEAD which no one’s taken down

because just seeing it makes the green

of the pastures an even sweeter sight.

The silos this morning are brimming

with the years they’ve seen, the guineas

bold enough to eat the grass that runs

along the road, and the local library

has its OPEN flag highfiving the wind.

On days like this, it feels like everyone

and their mother is pushing a wellworn

wheelbarrow in the direction of joy.

 

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(That image is a poemjoke. Do you get it?)

 

Poem with flowers in it (mine).

Insanity (the good kind)

lalalalalalalalalalala  for Ellie!

The trillium are blooming everywhere & I’m going insane

with happiness. Illegal to harvest & illegal not to love,

the trillium bloom in the forest and where the forest

meets the road. Magenta blooms made of three red petals

with three green understudies. Jack-in-the-pulpit’s likely

nearby, and a stream where the bugs who slide across water

are stretching their legs after winter. The breeze smells like ferns

unfurling their eyes to the sun and the hatless and shoeless

woman I am has her pupils hotglued to the ground.