Tag Archives: gardening

it’s due to a different kind of savoring

overheard in the  kitchen while i
zig zag stitch and zig zag some more:
baigz: do you mind if I blend deer brains in the blender
Jeaux: not only do i not mind, i encourage it
and later, baigz says something about how it looks like a strawberry smoothie

he is building/making a drum
he saw in a vision 

the styrofoam (luxury) box i construct and cut a door out of
(upon hearing the predicted 38degree high for tonight)
that mama cat, despite my placement of her bedding from her old nonluxury box
into her new luxury box, refuses to enter
perhaps because the styrafoam weirds her eout or perhaps because she’s punk as fuck and is committed to resisting anything that resembles urban development every step of the way

the taste of some of the season’s last tomatoes
and how i don’t know how to name it but
the quality of its flavor is so much different
than the season’s first
perhaps it is due to a different kind of savoring
(the difference between the it’s been too long since kind of savoring and the wistful enjoyment of what will soon be gone kind of savoring)


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the day in pieces

the classic redness
of the apples we pluck
from heavy branches
trying to call out
when the fruit is falling near another’s head/body
filling crate after crate
with the best baking apples
(oh! the sweetness!)
i’ve ever tasted

the almost unbearable buzzing and 
diving of bees
hovering around the windfall fruit
and zipping past
our ears
the multi-colored zig zgs printed 
on the fabric i guide through the machine
that stitches elastic to fabric
the new growth
which surprises all of us
on the green bean plants we work our way down
plunking the harvest into buckets

moonstar the cat and the sometimes small snore
that comes out of her always small self
curled up in the medium sized priority mail box
made cozy with fleece scraps
as i write down the day
in pieces

i mississippi river you like nobody’s business she writes
and i know exactly
what this feels like

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with a swiftness

the thank-you note in my scrawl
addressed to ghana regarding the delicious and perfect chocolate chip cookies
the sweat in beadlets along the curve of baigz’s back
as a small crew of us move through the patches of recently germinated carrots
thinning and weeding
in the hoophouse heat
sparkle and spice written
on the tell-tale blue (a mini banner)
affixed to the silver holographic pencil
just under its hot pink eraser topper
liek the pencil has an announcment to make
which it does
a list of symptoms addressed
to dr. danger
read in the hammock
where white pine limbs and needles plus wind
make that particular and most magnificent sound
as if the needles are combing the air that moves through
as seen from the back road
where two cats (mama and ashby) trot behind me
hwo the low cloud is dark/gray and it moves with a swiftness over the higher puffier whiter cloud
and that’s not even to mention
all the varying edges
and orange pink light and how earlier
emory exploded through the front door while some of us sat to dinner
exclaiming it was so beautifullllll!!!!! about the seriously
highway-to-heaven sunray sky
he encountered on the ride home
rough concrete of the cistern top below me as i recline under sky
and take in flashes of light that travel the clouds heading east –
how at their edges, constellations reveal themselves
another light-a-candle-don’t-turn-on-the-lights night
in which, before i light the candle,
i loft-lay in the breeze of the fan at the end of what might be the last 90-degree day of the season
to watch the green world glow and darken
in the lightning
the sound of ashby’s claws in the screen
wanting in 
but i don’t let him because it might be
too warm inside
for his comfort
from the water world:


A Hindu devotee performs “Pind Daan” – rituals for the soul of ancestors – in the river ganges at Phaphamau, Allahabad, India – voice of america, day in photos

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when something rattles inside

a name for the tea i pour in the morning
into a cup i leave on the windowsill
for her spirit to sip on
(today it is the chai kind with MACAW and verna’s honey)

feet bare on hard lookfar soil
and sun on my shoulders asi move slowly through
the whites pinks purples and greens
of the cosmos
whose seeds i gather in a plastic ice cream gallon
and i think about how just when the plant is browning/drying/dying
(a think people might want to turn their heads from)
it sends out seed
more magic than any bloom
the whir-buzz-hum-drone
and emerald
of the hummingbird
beelining and diving
around the pollen-full flowers
the white whisps drifting
as i pre-winnow, fistful by fistful,
the just-collected cosmos seed in the slight breeze

when something rattles inside trish says
leaning over in the cowpeas explaining
when they’re ready to harvest

gibbous the gold orange cat
who disappeared for a day and a half
reappears at his feeding perch
with a limp in his hind legs and a crusty scab spot
on his forehead 
moving even more gingerly
than usual

not neon and not molten 
but somewhere in between
(the redpinkorange
of a perfectly round sun
as it hovers just over horizon)

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folded like a passed note

two peaches in my pockets
an apple in each mug and
hot chai tea in the red pot
that i carry to cool ranch
between cat feeding and garden partying
had to wait until we settled
into each others’ orbit
she says about me finally waking up
with my head on right ready
to get shit done
the meager final bean harvest
plunked into eric and i’s buckets
and the plenty of the just-coming-on harvest
of shiny sturdy red hot fruits
dangling off the jalapeño plants
the after lunch cereal scenarioI
involving a chocolate puff and marshmellow sugar fest
accompanied by almond milk
spooned out of our (eric, jenafr, cynthia and i’s) bowls

convex and concave she talks about the shapes
food sometimes takes
a descendant from a long line
of those with synesthesia
sometimes there is no other word for a cat curled up besides puddle
as in: a puddle of cat
and there is birdie
a puddle of cat
lying on both of our chests/hips
moving in the slight hammock sway
rounded or squared cynthia asks about corners
on the end-grain cutting boards (one of each variety
set out on the table
the wood dark and wet with oil/water

a short poem folded
like a passed note
torn out of notebook and titled
for frankie just before lunch
tossed my way across dining room table
pocket-sized and zipped into
my hoodie

there’s plenty to go around jenafr says
to the bee in the cosmos patch where we
gather seed and use the word vulgar about the not-yet-opened-but-almost buds
tiger-eye eyes i say
looking in and naming off cat quailities
the absolute-danger color
of sunset sky
burning red in the west
everywhere along the horizon
from the wider world:

View of an artwork by French artist JR on the U.S.-Mexico border in Tecate, California. – voice of america, day in photos

from the water world:

View of the aftermath of Hurricane Irma on Saint Maarten, the Dutch part of Saint Martin island in the Caribbean. voice of America, day in photos

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before it is airborn

fox tail seedheads brush/scratching my face, arms, thighs as i lean in
to tug and yank
from the headers and beds
of south garden
my feet gathering dirt
from all the shaken-out-from-the-roots soil 
being tossed about

the cicada in the peach tree i disturb
just by walking past
how it buzz-buzz-flaps
(like something that needs to take a running start)
and swirls in a few little circles – bumping up against branches
before it is airborn away from me
how we joke about the rooster always piping up which means
we never get to hear what the orange hen has to say
i like the precision, it’s satisfying i say of using the 1/4 teaspoon to measure salt for each quart of tomato juice
and the teaspoon to measure salt
for each quart of pulp
and eric says he finds satisfaction in guessing
we should start a business together i joke
and we laugh for what feels like the first time all day
the white bowl that i pour a pyrex full of fresh cooked tomato juice into
that eric and i take turns sipping out of in karma kitchen
(he’s a good slurper)
where the two ginormo pots of tomatoes cook down
and the one hot water bath heats up
sunset walk report:
at first, the cloud is a band pulled across that molten orb – and the band has squares punched out of it
and the orange blocks of light coming out of the punched out squares make me think of windows in a row like on an airplane
then the band is a teenage mutant ninja turtle’s mask
the sun’s eyes glowing out
and then, as it the sun sinks and the cloud goes from a holed thing to a solid thing
there are just two shreds of light hot pink and then,
as one might suspect with a sunset,
they are gone
mica and i laughing to tears about selling off things like
the duct-taped handle karma kitchen whisk
as one way of making a living when it comes down to
being just me and the five cats
real hippies used this is how mica suggests i market it
as well as highlighting the added nutritional value (enzymes?) of the food bits that are surely to be caked on during the time of sale
it is tonight that i notice
(even though it surely has been going on for at least four or so days)
that it seems to be the official end
of firefly season
one wish i bestow
for a particular forty-thirteenth-eighth birthday:
many meteor-like glimmers
flashing across your sky
for the rest of the year

from the water world:

A boy jumps into a public pool on a hot day in Gelsenkirchen, Germany. – voice of america, day in photos

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the adjective i used

the kale plants finally
(due to cooler/wetter weather and
consistent BT application)
looking robust
deep green
large leafed
caabbage moth – free)

i don’t remember the adjective i used
but it was a word for admiring the massive roots
(not just the knot of them in the ground
but the clumps of them growing anywhere along the branches where they touched ground)
in south garden with eric
of the tomatillo plants we pull up
one at a time knocking
soil off the places
where they grabbed tight
to earth
how a monarch moving
among the blooms 
is better than a human 
singing praises
of the colors, the petal patterns
i feel like you didn’t get to be acknowledged for being as special as you are
teh voice message (inspired by ranbow season/farming season) says
sent from the pacific southwest
and while i don’t understand what it means
i take it as a hug and an arm squeeze
for a grief that sailed
long ago
the double walnut 
in john arbuckle’s palm
lucky as a wishbone
he holds it then drops it on the back road

i think i need to live with less
i tell shiz
while i imagine myself
looking out at the vast sea of
mustard to make
sorghum to ship
broekn machines to fix
weeds to pull
beds to mulch
tomatoes to process
harnesses to sew
cats to feed
numbers to be crunched
kitchen and garden inspections to prepare for
leaks to stop
meals to cook
under the same sliver moon
featured in slightly different skies
we reach towards
unnamed phenomenon:
the special kind of feeling honored
when someone tells you that you showed up
in their dreams last night
and the super special kind of feeling honored
when the appearances paint you
in the most brilliant light

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