Category: Summer 2023

And just think. Six months ago,
as I peered at the mud and snow and ice
that filled this very spot, only that
and nothing more, it was impossible
even to dream of an early July morning
and the tenderness of hosta blossoms
kissed by the warm rain. Now here I am,
alive in that impossible dream.

Some artist I read once said how much
he loved the rain, the way it revealed
the colors and light. I smile this morning
as I stroll in the gardens in the rain,
his comments echoing in my mind.
I gaze on the lushness of it all,
amazed that I get to be here.

Isn’t it interesting how one small detail
can catch your heart and anchor itself
in the sea green depths of your memory?
I walked on a day when the light was scant
and from the lush summer foliage
that bordered my path a single tiny flower
beamed a glad hello.

There was one ripe raspberry on the vine.
Then there wasn’t.

Listen, it’s all a gift. No matter how it feels.
The moment is larger than we imagine
and could not exist as it is but for our part
in it. Our seeing stitches it together.
Our words are notes in its song.
When we move, we move the whole atmosphere.
We breathe air and drink water that has passed
through countless other bodies before ours.
Our thoughts shape the future and color its days.
We give time its meaning and rhyme.
And it all shines back at us, a perfect reflection
in the grand cosmic mirror, of who we are,
each of us, and all of us together.

Imagine that you’re standing on this bridge
right beside me, looking at the astonishing details
of this tranquil summer scene. That’s the Little Beaver,
and I’ve seen beavers here, from this very bridge,
no longer than a year or two ago, right over there.
How many cars cross here in a day would you suppose?
A couple hundred? Maybe more? Could be.
How many who cross even turn their heads to glance
at this? They already know it. It’s the creek and trees.
Imagine we stand here together, taking it in, smiling
in the moist, warm air, listening to the creek’s songs,
our bodies lightly swaying with the dances of the trees.

A touch of lace graces the garden now,
its airiness bright, despite the dimmed light
of yet another rainy day, as if it were trailing
across a bride’s gown as she glides,
pure of heart and filled with hope and dreams,
down the aisle of a candlelit cathedral.
The sight makes you pause in reverence somehow
for this tender display of faith and joy,
despite the darkness of the world.
Grace is like that, proving, as the poet said,
that the heart has reasons that reason
cannot know.

The insistent call of a jay gets my attention:
“Hey-hey!” he yells, over and over. I laugh,
squawk back at him from the studio window,
then head downstairs to grab a cup of seeds.
This is the second time we’ve played this game.
The first time, as soon as I noticed the call,
I realized he was saying, “Hey! Food Lady!
Hey! You! We need more seeds out here.
The chipmunks ate them all. Hey! Hey! Food!”
“Guests who think they own the place,” I mutter.
But he’s smart, this cocky young fella.
He amuses me, the way he’s already trained me
to respond to his call. And I have a photo of him
enjoying the feast, a snacking chipmunk
hiding behind the astilbe in the corner.

Three young ferns rise from the middle
of a patch of grass I planted this spring.
Not wanting them to spread, I go to pull them.
But there, a toad is nestled in the grass
taking the curly fronds as shelter from
predators and rain, looking up at me
through his gold-lidded eye, a toad smile
spread across his face. I greet him.
He lets me take his picture, pet his back.
I left the ferns. I’ll pull them on another day.

There’s no real access to this lake,
just a small patch of dust in the brush
off the shoulder of a two-lane road.
One year, on New Year’s Eve,
serendipity led me here to see
how the sun set precisely into
the center of that grove of trees
on the opposite side of the lake.
Every year since, I’ve come
to watch it bid the year farewell.
Behind the trees, double train tracks
run from East Palestine, Ohio.
I walked them one frozen afternoon
last February when the derailment
halted traffic for a day. It was,
I figured, my only chance.
Now, as the fresh summer sun
dances among the lily pads
and licks my arms’ bare skin, I breathe
the warm, moist air and remember
how the year began here and recall
the sharp smells and the cold.