Growing

 

I checked in on my plants 

and they aren’t growing 

so very well.

When I tell you 

what an amazing 

vegetable garden I had during covid-

it would just make sense 

that I would keep trying, 

year after year, 

to get that back.

And I can’t. 

Everything is struggling 

and refusing 

and hiding behind weeds 

and hiding in the ground.

My first flash of frustration 

turned into a text to friends-

a picture of the failing. 

One  friend said, 

“I see green there…”

 which is true. 

I am cultivating green. 

I think the dirt was going to do that anyway, 

but I made the dirt soft in order 

for the green to grow.

I made the room.

The space.

And I am growing myself.

I am asking for help

and I am trying on my own

and I am standing my ground

and I am maybe believing.

I am growing hair back

and adjusting to a changing body

and wanting strength for strength,

not so much for the sleeveless dress.

(and also for sleeveless dresses)

And everything is also struggling

and refusing 

and hiding behind weeds 

and hiding in the ground-

rather, my head.

I don’t want that Covid garden back.

I don’t want that year that followed.

I don’t want to be frail

and lose my hair

and lose my voice

and lose my eye contact

and feel trapped 

and feel torn

and feel fearful.

I am cultivating.

Survival Instincts

 

My cat once injured a baby bunny.

It was out of pure instinct,

and

it made me very sad.

I understood,

though,

that the likelihood of their living 

in the same yard

successfully

would be small

and at the fault of

neither animal.

I don’t know,

in our lives,

who was the hunter 

and the prey.

I do know, too,

that it wasn't the dynamic.

Quite.

However.

I think of that day,

today.

My holding the small rabbit

as it went through its last moments

of life

while the contented cat 

walked in and out of my legs,

looking up at me.

The heaviness of knowing 

that I 

was doing what nature intended

and you

became injured in the process.

And you

were following your instincts

and I 

became hurt as well.

Both of us

caught 

in the circle.

Trapped

in our turning,

until we were

thrown apart from

one another

into our

separate locations.

Both of us

trying to recover

while staying alert

for our next steps.

Bamboo

 

I had a bamboo plant, 

small and healthy, 

for a few years.

When you came to my porch 

and you saw it, 

you admired it well.

I bought you a bamboo plant 

to keep in your home.

The atmosphere there nearly killed it.

In fact, 

we were sure it was dead 

when it was handed to you

as we packed your things 

from that home’s atmosphere 

into our car.

I placed your plant 

next to mine 

on the porch that Summer.

It started to have small shoots of green growth 

in the sunlight  

and with care.

The plants continued to thrive

on the kitchen windowsill that winter.

In fact, 

yours grew markedly, 

making mine look small 

and simple.

Back out on the porch for two more Summers.

Your plant was taller

and greener and, 

for no known reason, 

mine stopped producing anything new.

An area on the stalk 

lost color 

and I watched it 

struggle 

next to yours 

that grew.

And it was not lost on me 

the meaning 

and the message it told me.

That winter, 

when I went on the porch to set up

more preventatives 

to keep you

safe and well,

I stopped short when I saw 

that I had never 

brought in the bamboo plants 

when I moved every other plant 

inside.

Your plant 

and my plant

were left to die 

over the three seasons 

they could not handle.

The realization was sharp to my heart.

And it was not lost on me 

the meaning 

and the message it told me.

I would buy new plants,

I thought.

I would do that.

And I didn’t

because you were thriving 

in an unhealthy way.

And I was growing 

unwell and small.

You are on a smaller sill.

I am on a different porch, alone.

There are no bamboo.

You are not home.

100 Words- The Good Stuff

When I begin to feel low 

I can recognize that

it is because I am 

living in my list 

of what isn’t so great.

I try to understand, 

instead, 

how long our lives are 

which is 

unknown. 

And so

then I think about 

the fat pinecones 

on the sidewalks 

and driveways 

and trails. 

The ones that crunch 

so satisfyingly 

under my hiking boots. 

There is always that. 

I will start my list there.

And I will add

belly laughs,

gifts from dogs,

relief on someone’s face,

sunshine in the Fall,

a bear hug from behind,

an unexpected bird stopping near.

Fostering

After he had left

I looked around the bright,

Sunny space

he had given up, and 

I looked at the mess 

he had left behind

Some of my 

most important things

were smashed, 

and some of his 

most valuable items 

were abandoned.

So I slowly started 

to pick it all up.

It was too much to hold.

So then I began to 

throw some stuff in the trash 

that I knew 

I didn’t want 

anymore. 

I made a pile of his things 

and I would, 

every now and then, 

go upset 

the mound of it 

and yell. 

I’d yell 

and yell 

as I righted it 

again, 

too.

I began to try 

and salvage 

some of my things. 

Just when I thought 

they were fixed, 

they’d crumble 

in my hands. 

This, too, 

would make me angry 

because angry was easier 

than sad. 

I would go to throw out 

all that was broken 

and then would stop, 

not wanting to believe 

they had to go.

It would just need time.

Then I could fix it.

Sometimes,

I would take

one or two items

from his pile and

bring them to him

to see if

he wanted them.

He would shrug 

and say, thanks.

But when I would go to leave

I would notice

they were back 

with me.

Instead.

And time and again,

I would try to deliver 

some of the things again,

not giving up, 

and always would 

return home with them.

He knew they were here.

One day,

quiet and thoughtful, 

I decided to try one more go 

at fixing my very important 

and broken things. 

I patiently fitted pieces. 

I looked at what was coming together

and would make small adjustments. 

Then I saw 

what would no longer fit 

and put those aside. 

Over time, 

what I created 

was something new. 

It wasn’t the 

important 

original thing 

and, looking at it, 

it wasn’t 

all together 

unfamiliar to me. 

It wasn’t what I expected 

nor what I was used to. 

It was here, 

though, 

in my hands. 

In front of me. 

And so I kept it.