Come,
sit beside me
on this dark step
and wait with me
for the moon to rise.
Listen with me
to the silver words
as the moon cushions
the blue darkness.
Our hands join.
Our shoulders touch.
The blood alive
beneath our skin.
The warm night air
flowing in and out
of our lungs.
Do we hear the same music?
Do we see the same living shapes
in the constellations?
I put aside this idle curiosity
and bask in the rhythm
of our simple, silent
heartbeat.
A tightness prompts
a constricting
that pulls a string
that moves in a creeping current
up to my throat
but the air tickles and
try though I might
I cannot suppress the cough
that barks into the night.
I slip out of bed
to sit alone in the chair
beside the sky-dark window.
It is then I hear in my lungs
the murmur of living Mullein,
even though her stalwart stalk,
budded in summer with buttery blossoms
stands dry and brown
in winter’s garden.
Stay with me, Verbascum thapsus,
for I am lonely with fever
and fear edges my breath.
Blanket my chest
with the soothing sage-gray
of your lush and velvety leaves.
We can be allies, I proffer:
help me heal
and you will always be welcome
wherever you set your roots,
be it in the lawn
the lettuce bed
under the apple tree or
among the pumpkins in their patch.
I never doubted her promise
or questioned her advice
and now, old friends,
with every spring
and grateful lungs
I watch for her return.
Each in Its Season
It is barely April
and the much maligned dandelion
is among the first arrivals.
She comes hurling herself at our lawns uninvited.
Is that why she is unwelcome?
Radiant little being!
Look at her glowing cheeks
and love her for her steadfast devotion.
Meanwhile, we watch impatiently
for our garden darlings:
the tender tulips of May
the pomp and peonies of June
the irises so independent
lilies lithe and lovely in July’s heat.
Following these divas
the umbels of elders flower
like points of sweet cream dappled in a basket
and the heady scent of valerian
soothes our sleep through open windows.
Soon Queen Anne’s lace
fringes every field and meadow
and ornamental jewelweed
sways tall and taller, pink and laughing
at the stalwart efforts and dense yellow of goldenrod.
And then the asters of August,
appearing right on time,
first as questions,
later as purple answers.
Each in its season.
Each with its reason.
Why here,
why now?
Choosing to live
is all.
Limonium carolinianum
Her territory:
the essence of temporary,
the uncertain, beaten, worn
and ever-moving, ever-changing breath
where sea and moon
exchange their greetings.
She thrives,
indeed can only survive
among shore rocks and marsh grasses,
her roots anchored
in soft and spongey sea mud.
The air she breathes is cold and salty.
Her taut, thin stems,
wrapped in seaweed
and the papery remains of crabs,
branch into spikey statements
of tiny blue-gray flowers,
sprays of pale delicacy
that hint at her tough tenderness.
She’s weathered a lot of storms,
has many tales to tell.
But she saves them.
And when all the other flowers
are dead or dormant
and it’s winter
and we look for warmth and stories,
there she is,
reminding us
that the tide advances
and the tide recedes,
so send your roots down deep
and hold your head up high.
Go then, Great Bear, to your den beside the frozen pond,
and there retreat as the Cold Moon
traces its arc in the star-frosted sky.
Sleep now, for winter is long,
your breathing slow and shallow
as the sun tosses its golden coin
and turns to catch it.
Dream, now, of roots and berries,
of the plant medicine that will heal us when we awaken
with the sun’s return.
Rest, as Ursa Major, your spirit cousin in the sky,
points the way to Polaris
and shows us each
the way to our true north.
The Owl of this hour of wonder
–as old as the year–as cold as the frost—
–as weary as the trees as they let go their leaves–
Perched on the limbs of fading light, she has dozed through the days of December.
Imagine her now turning her head to gaze wide-eyed into this darkness.
With the patience that wisdom bestows
she makes a slow survey of the moonlit path to your door.
Grandmother of the forest, Guardian of the graves on the hill,
keep watch with us
as we light our candles
as we kindle our fires.
On the longest, darkest night of the year
a noble deer appears
at the northern edge
of the starless sky,
her antlers branched
like the brown limbs
of brooding oaks.
Through winter’s frozen curtain
shines a pale light
and then another
and another growing brighter
as Mother Deer carries aloft
the life of the new sun
like candles on the tree of life.
Watch as she flies over the sleeping houses
leaving the gift of warmth,
the blessings of light,
the promise of the sun’s return.
Solstice, 2016
I pick one flower
a perfectly red hibiscus
place the plucked end in water
hoping it will drink and
stay with me for a while
stay alive though I know
the picking will shorten its time
has already changed its fate
from coquette to languid beauty.
Longevity is hardly the question now.
Perhaps there is no question.
There is only this looking, looking
this small remorse that I have interfered
this sigh for my clumsy human flesh
that steps on grasslings
leaves footprints in pink sand
in mud
picks a hibiscus
and only then remembers
that fate surprises us
picks us from our bush
our limb
so I place this perfect blossom
behind my ear
its bawdy pollen-laden stamen
observing me
from the corner of my eye:
here we go together
stepping out
to see what we can see.
Sleeping bulbousness
round-hipped and heavy-lidded
layers of elephantine skin and promise
you are the India of flora
a subcontinent unto yourself
silk-red as a sari.
Having chosen a pot as round
and windowless as your soul
the gardener
in the dark basement
of winter
tucks you into pillows of earth
and waits
and watches
the invisible egg
of gestation
nestled in dirt
a singular
self-satisfied womb
taking all the time you need
and more
no questions asked.
And then
with the attitude of royalty
you present yourself.
How could we not
long for you?
Comes the carpet
long, slow, green
five runners firm
and impervious.
Each scarlet bell
a new surprise:
that such majesty
would visit this windowsill
that such nectar and velvet
of carmine and sap
would know from black
to answer to its name
and lift,
open its arms
and bow
to the applauding sun.
First, the smell of red-brown
clay moist of earth
a column
thick so thick
we want no air to penetrate
this heft and dense
no bubble forming
undermining.
Knead, then,
ask this clay elastic
to know your hands
the dough and stone of them
pushing back and together
the palms cradling
the whole hand lifting
and sinking pressing
repeating the song
the bowl of your body
quietly forming.
janetngold 