All of a sudden, the yellowing—
coltsfoot
dandelions
forsythia
daffodils
& the chickening—
the neighbor’s chalkboard sign reads
FREE ROOSTERS
the other neighbor’s pullets
test their babywings out front
& the neon-greening—
the leafing out
leaves like fingers spreading into hands
the hillsides like a fabric
of chlorophyll’s talents
& the perennials—
the miracle of having only
to plant something once
to receive its joys
each year
I’m growing a child while I sleep
I’m growing a child while I weed the lavender
I’m growing a child while I fill the ice cube trays
I’m growing a child while I wipe down the toilet
I’m growing a child while I organize headbands I never wear
I’m growing a child while I edit Spotify playlists
I’m growing a child while I throw out all my underwear with holes
I’m growing a child while I water the geraniums
I’m growing a child while I add more salt to the pesto
I’m growing a child while I bobby-pin my hair
I’m growing a child while I remove dirt from my fingernails
I’m growing a child while the maples slip into their best red outfits, while the mornings dampen with mist, while I pack cucumbers and hot peppers into jars, while I bag corn and blackberries and peppers for the freezer, while I simmer plum compote and pick the last batch of cosmos, while the cows enjoy their last spin around the paddocks, while I braid the garlic and wrap the yarrow in string, while summer unzips her skirt and throws it atop the yellowing milkweed, the New England asters, the spent blossoms of Queen Anne—
If you slide your fingers down the slender stem
of bluebells
like a man searching the body of a woman
for signs of yes,
you will find your palm filled
with tiny flowers composed
of intricate beauty
You will find your palm
has become a bowl of soundless
fragrance
You will find faces
made of petals
& you may even find
something of yourself.
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
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.
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.
(That image is a poemjoke. Do you get it?)
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.
panache, perhaps 