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In a deserted still sea
Gold does not shine Yet caresses the shore, Gives the trees faces That gaze at boulders Like giant turtles Incapable of lying Either to me or the flocks Flying low in fog's padding Toward new land, On a fleeting surface. Unshifting skies weep droplets Slight as cygnets among the reeds, Parents circle Feed, nestle In the pause Before the freeze The oar breaks molasses On lifting it heals, No trace of anticipation Or my giddy heart Once here. In the lost realm Where fish graze A tree grows from the deep, Once ignored By famished sailboats Hungry to be free, Witness to the fullness, No wind No need Breath rising and falling On the thickening eve.
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Summer sun echoing Through a curtain of fairy dust Tender as first fall rain On ears in waiting for the peace Of winter's weightless bright cascade.  Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. |
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August 2024
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