With thanks to Vanessa Seijo
The sun in the meadow-
The wind in the morning-
A song half finished-
I am in the mood for planting.
I find myself on my knees, digging, digging.
I dig down to find old roots from a distant season;
these are near dessicating,
yet cling as though still living to the hummus
'neath the rim of my first outdoor planter.
I had a dark mood on moving.
I even say it used to upset me beyond endurance,
the uprootedness that often followed.
It would seem my gypsy song does not blend within a garden's season.
I may sow, yet I may not abide-
Such is the nature of timing, and the timing of nature, all in one.
I cling tightly to what little earth there is about me,
barely daring to believe I will be all right
if changes come too soon to be acceptable.
It is a dark time I came through.
I cast my thoughts backward only in prayer
by way of soothing me down into earth's bounty.
The decay of mistaken identity is all around me
as I paw at the sentient soil,
leather work gloves already soaking, clotted.
There is an air of doubt in this garden.
It resembled a hill of small repute,
hardly worth noticing, before I set my heart on it.
I take my makeshift set of garden tools in hand,
selecting from their few handles
a simple dinner knife of solid steel,
and cut open the eager flesh of earth like a surgeon.
I am alone.
I hear the wind calling my name on high-
Like rushing whispers tossed about in scrambling bursts.
The time is nigh.
My heart won't bargain for a safer perch until willing.
I must will the changes, flintily scraping away
at each hidebound thought.
A restless thought.
What was it I told myself I wanted?
Peace with joy at breakfast.
Peace with rest at eventide.
Peace with anchored position no man can shake nor break,
no matter how low his mood can be.
Oh, I want freedom most of all!
Freedom to exact justice on the world.
Freedom to see myself into old age without worry.
Freedom to see offspring well set for life.
Freedom to fly, be at peace, be my own true self.
I sandwich a few handfuls of darker loam
between the tiny hill-like mounds,
steadying my sunflower sprouts
from the wind's eager whispering force.
I kneel, I plant once more, six seedlings barely formed.
Will it avail me that I plant?
Am I too willing to remember this place as a haven,
despite another's wicked will?
I sigh, and the wind catches me by one ear.
"You've never flown before," I hear it tell me.
"You've always had someone to tether you to their ideal."
I sigh once more.
A tear struggles up from the bottom of one shoe into the air.
"Time for Flying Lesson Number One."
I shake loose clods from my gloves over the lengthening grass.
A glimmer of hope resides where none had been before.
I must guard it with care, as I nurture everything growing here.
In the pure air of a different place, my lung capacity might grow.
In peaceful dwellings, where healing is guarded, I might rise to do more.
What is it I wanted before.....?
I remember now.
Beside the door, the box for garden tools.
The wind against my summer hat, I trace my steps of thought
to what it was like to be truly free to move at speed
and to breathe with ease,
I want my wings back, I say to myself.
A glance down.
A soft glimmer of blue in the grass beneath the old ash tree.
A stoop, then the discovery.
Tiny cradle, turquoise through and through,
singing out of summer's purchase
and time's remorseful longing.
I scoop it from the tender embrace of the soft and lengthening grass.
Partly shattered, partly holding the true shape it was made to become.
Tender crumbling flakes of heaven on my palm,
I turn homeward,
a vaster sigh
copyright 2010 The Poor Woman's Retroactive Diary
Vanessa's poem that inspired yours truly to write this above effort is her stellar
"I Want to Move to Provence,"
her June 5, 2010 post.
Go and read it. You'll find it awe-inspiring.
(Sorry--couldn't make it Link. I tried. SOmething's wonky at O.S.)