Autumn jubilation; three cheers for autumn (photos, words).

Some things:

 

1. Sissy visit. Beautiful leaves. Beautiful little wreaths. Jokes & foods. New plan hatched where sissy moves to Montpelier. Scheming, scheming.

 

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2. We’re handing out little poems of mine (free verses from Free Verse Farm!) at the market now. It’s the best.

 

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3. Wendy Guerra, Cuban poet and fantastic human, read and chatted at Revolution this week. Just what I needed. Wendy says:

 

“The wounds, before healing, should be named.”

 

4. We’re moving! We’re moving into the woods! Into the woods with friends!

 

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5. And now: coffee with a lot of hot milk! Apples to be picked and pears to be dried! Two new sweaters made for boys but befitting this small woman! Here we go Sunday here we go (clap clap).

 

(photo credits to Sarah S. Katz)

 

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A little poem of life (mine).

Life As a Woman

 

I braid my hair,

I braid my garlic.

I go to work;

I go to market.

 

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“Ode to the First Peach” (poem) (Ellen Bass).

A San Diego friend emailed me this poem this week. How did she know this was the week I was missing peaches so badly? Also missing Annie of Sweet Tree Farms, the best & coolest fruit farmer in the Whole World. We do have a couple of peach trees on the property, but no fruits yet. Although there are huge, bodacious raspberries blooming. Also blueberries. And plums! So there is really nothing for me to complain about. But ooh. The joy of eating a peach. While standing over the sink. The juice dripping down my chin. And looking out the window as I bite. And taking the pit in my fingers. And throwing it outside. Just in case. It wants to grow. Into a peach tree of its own.

 

**

Ode to the First Peach

Only one insect has feasted here,
a clear stub of resin
plugs the scar. And the hollow
where the steam was severed
shines with juice.
The fur still silvered
like a caul. Even
in the next minute
the hairs will darken,
turn more golden in my palm.
Heavier, this flesh,
than you would imagine
like the sudden
weight of a newborn.
Oh what a marriage
of citron and blush!
It could be a planet
reflected through a hall
of mirrors. Or
what a swan becomes
when a fairy shoots it
from the sky at dawn.
At the beginning of the world,
when the first dense pith
was ravished and the stars
were not yet lustrous
coins fallen from the
pockets of night,
who could have dreamed
this would be curried
from the chaos.
Scent of morning and sugar,
bruise and hunger.
Silent, swollen, clefted life,
remnant always remaking itself
out of that first flaming ripeness.

Why not: a birthday collage.

Dear Scott,

I made you this internet collage comprised of (beautiful) images that remind me of you. I really hope you like it.

Love,

Taylor

 

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coffee and whiskey

 

 

 

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Happiest of days to you, friend. I hope your weekend is full of even better things than Ellie giving the sneaky middle finger to you in a photo, though it’s hard to imagine what’s better than that.

 

Things that are small in Vermont (piglets! piglets are small!).

We arrived in Vermont on Friday evening. Yesterday, Saturday, we visited the farmers’ market, unpacked our trusty truck, Egret the Egret, visited piglets down the road, sampled raspberries and blackberries, went for a dip in the pond and ate delicous foods we did not cook ourselves, amen. Here’s Misha, in the sun. Here are the piglets.

West Coast Poetry Project, Part 2: San Luis Obispo!

 

San Luis Obispo Poem

 

for Rachel, who said I had to go to SLO

 

“Let’s just take in this purple

for a moment” and we do

as the line for meats grows

longer and the street fills

up. We thought we’d just stop

to café but we chatted to a stone

man who told us that the market

would be starting soon and here

we are. We types can’t miss

a farmers’ market. We gotta

see the squash and beans

for sale, we buy more apples

and some avocadoes and a pint

of Golden Kiwi raspberries.

A man named Rick asks to take

our picture and we say yes.

We eat our good brown bread

with cheese and talk to Rick

and watch the kids around

eat corn. Kindergarten gymnasts

do their flips and men in camo

are the band. A kid can bounce

in one of three inflated castles

and I want to. The jacarandas

haven’t finished blooming here.

We catch the purple petals

that fall and strew the ground

like rice after a wedding.

We keep our purple vows.

 

 

Yesterday’s poem of the morning (mine).

 

I’m wearing all my rings this morning

Norah Jones is singing about flowers growing

 

in the frozen snow, how it’s all a show

She’s saying everything she wants to in a song

 

It will take me my life to say everything I want to

especially on the topic of hands and feet and happy

 

I shined up all my rings this morning

The broken turquoise one, the thin swoop of gold

 

from Sam that I wore for weeks after her surgery

I shined my only sapphire and my TAYLOR ring

 

given to me by whom I can’t remember

What’s the point if I can’t remember who gave it to me there still

 

must be a point

I have fat thumbs and new sandals

 

from Moya who said, Oh just take them

they’re your going away present you’re going

 

away now you’ll remember me