to get at that lavender

suited up in light blue raincoat
and black rain pants as i pedal
through the mist,
traffic roaring to my left,
creek tumbling to my right
and all the green bursting three hundred sixty degrees around

the snip sound
of lightweight blades
clipping off the dried/yellowing bits
of more daylilies than one can count
throughout the course
of a rainy day

bright red flash
of hummingbird throat
belonging to the tiny creature that keeps
swooping into the greenhouse
to get at that flowering lavender
arriving to two beautiful
home-baked loaves of bread
laid out on the cutting board

the thud of a treadless basketball
on the wet green grass
under the hoop
at the edge of the trailer park playground


made of blueberry lavender

five a.m., me up and sitting on the kitchen table
feet on a chair
how i snuck quietly in there to ‘hunt’ the rats
(locating the sound of where they party
to understand more about where they’re coming in
and where they’re partying around to)
apple’s hilarious suggestion
to literally punch the time clock
(as in, with a fist)

what i call groundcherry jam
she calls groundcherry syrup
made with the intention of being jam –
either way, we love the way the softened fruits
fall perfectly into the empty waffle squares
the sunset sky some sort of neapolitan
but made of blueberry lavender and
fuschia strawberry and cool vanilla
striping itself over the curves of green field
laying themselves out the front windows


twelve pounds of tyepwriter

12 pounds of typewriter in my pannier
slowing me down slightly on the ride
up the hills
then down them
on this gray sky morning
into town
david, who’s maybe 6
leaning in while i’m at the typewriter
to help with the poem about garfield
telling me in a classic whisper
(hand held to ear, voice all hushy)
about how garfield peed… in the sink
she brings me lemon water fizz
she brings me pastries
she brings me encouragement
she brings me light
the bar of soap david’s mother brings me
in exchange for the poem
that david runs away from the table with
while that yellow piece of paper flaps in his hand

the bright blue
of a cast wrapped
around the skinny back leg
of a goat whose name i forget

the blur of animal

in a vast sea of plastic,
some leaves, some roots, some flowers, some branches, some blossoming
in other words: a 21st century nursery

the coolness combo of shade and water
as i simulate rain with a hose and watering wand
feeding each petunia 10 seconds worth of wetness
while i stand in the shade the baskets make

wobbling and cursing – unsteady on terrible gravel
on a shoulder wide enough
alongside a too fast highway
is what breaks me
the blur of animal – first i think fox,
then coyote but the mystery is still unsolved

i just know it was feral
crossing my path and i thank it
for showing up
for showing itself
for slowing me
for reminding me to look up and around
and to consider
what makes a struggle a struggle and
how sometimes slowing down
can shift such things

how i am held
in a spot that a lot of holding happens
on the floor
and crying


in the dusking hour

how i must lay a towel
over the partially-done (and extremely difficult) puzzle
in progress on the kitchen table because i cannot
pull myself away

it was the final straw several straws ago
but when we realize the rat who snuck in
and stole my cookies also snuck in
and stole jennifer’s jerky sticks
it is the final final final straw
the buzzing and clumsy flight
of thick big junebugs
in the dusking hour
as we visit the garden
to see the mulch and the possible sprouts

in absence of an actual deck
i draw (literally, with pens and markers and colored pencils)
four tarot cards on my last liberated unjobbing night
some cards made up, some that already exist:
four of bones
and garden of growth and learning

the first green thing

how the asparagus is delicious and also
how the asparagus makes me sad
because it is not sandhill asparagus
coming from the apple-tended patches
or the cynthia-tended patches
or the garden crew -tended patches
(because it is not the first green thing
coming in first a few spears at a time
and then by the bucketful,
asparagus for many many days)
we stay up until two a.m.
because i can’t leave the puzzle alone
(each piece landing into place a success)
and because of the after dinner ice cream with choclate in it

it’s been ten years
since someone else owned me
for seven hours a day
i say
as i adjust to my new orientation
to capitalism

the june bug buzz in the dusking sky
as i drizzle out tin cans (bottoms pierced to make a collection of holes, just like the rose of a watering can) full of water
over the lines of edamame and beans that have been planted
but have not yet broke up and out
of the earth’s surface

from a potter’s front porch

it will be a little thin in the beginning
matt says at the greenhouse

about the pay before the season picks up
and mama nature is still doing a lot of the watering
how i gasp
at the great bright streak of bird
dead on the gravel shoulder before me
its color stunning (oriole-ish)
(and later, the death count rises to four birds
one squirrel
one raccoon
and two collections of scattered bones (some smashed and some whole),
white in the complete absence of muscle, sinew, skin or organ
that tree looks like it’s wearing a tutu
she says of the apple tree

seen at a distance from the front windows
whose lower branches are white with blossoms
while the rest of it on up is green-leafed
get curious about what works for others
and hold onto what works for you.
hold the width of your body,
your sides, your ears, the outsides of your feet
breathe and find your edges
bruin says
give yourself permission to become undone – lean into it

not mint and not seafoam and not green and not blue and not white
but somewhere amongst all of it,
wrapped in brown kraft paper,
the beautifullest soup bowls and
frankie mug carried back on bike
from a potter’s front porch
so you can sip your tea out of clay