Category: Poetry

I Love

~ Deb ~ 2 Comments 
I’m never worried that the
squirrels will eat my
birdseed. 
Maybe it’s squirrel seed. 
Why would I use the gas and 
spend the money to
haul home feed for
one species while wishing to 
shoo away another? 

I love nature, not just birds. 

I’ve never worried that the
ants will find the 
hummingbird cocktail.
It’s sugar — what’s not to love?
Why would I fill the glass bulb and
screw on the base and
hang it upside down for
the bumblebirds and not let
the workers have a donut? 

I love life, not just the pretty kind. 

I’ve never worried that other
people will benefit from the 
rights I fight for. 
We’re all in this time together. 
Why would I carry a sign and
march down the street chanting
words of resistance and equality
and not want every body to
experience justice? 

I love freedom, not just mine.

A Rosebush is a Weed

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

A rosebush is a weed
If it grows where there is no need
for roses.

I once saw a British garden show
where the host named plants that need to go
and mentioned rhododendron.

As if the mother of the flowers
born in Appalachian showers
was innately troublesome.

I rid my plot of chamomile
because I don’t grow chamomile,
though I drink it as a tea.

I buy it at the grocery store,
a blend of chamomile and more,
but pull it like a weed.

There’s little to no evidence
advocating the existence
of dandelion in a yard.

But some find it copacetic,
Claim the leaves are diuretic
And toss them with some chard

I pulled a knee-high mimosa
from amidst my prize azaleas,
stars of my floral show.

It would have been a fine tree,
but killed the vibe most certainly,
and so it had to go.

Where there is no need for roses,
Even roses are a weed.
Don’t just bloom where you are planted.
Plant yourself where there’s a need.

Nickie’s Reverie

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
“His hair is mmpl.”

“His hair is what?”

“His hair is mmpl.”

I will never know
what word describes his
hair, and so I change 
my tack. “Whose hair?” 

“Edwin.”

“Edwin? Who’s Edwin?”

“My teacher.”

You take no classes. You
have no teachers.  I know
you are talking in your
sleep about someone you
won’t remember when I
ask you later. 

I love that I know,
whoever Edwin is, he is
not a lover or a secret
or a problem. 

I love knowing where
you lay your head each
night and where I 
lay mine. 

I love knowing that you
trust me so deeply even
your subconscious
tells me all.

Love’s Labors

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
I love the spring visit to the 
garden center. 
Marigolds, knock-out roses, and
ten bags of mulch in the 
bed of the truck.
Plus birdseed, potting soil, a
Japanese pencil holly. 

Labors of love feed, create, cultivate.
Like a friend listening without judgment,
a teacher explaining one more time,
a meal cooked for others,
a song written to remind us again
of love. 

Did I? 

I dig a hole and let the thought
leaf out.
Did I love enough? 

How many times I missed a chance
to forgive or ignore
a slight or let go. 
But in my heart’s drought,
did I sometimes water pain with
compassion? 
Did I seed the world with life?

Do I? 

I set the holly into the hole,
straighten it, fill in
around the sides of the
root ball with soil I
soften to crumbles in my
fingers. 

“I hope you’re happy here,” 
I say. “I hope I’ve picked a 
good spot and dug a 
good hole. I hope you get
everything you need to 
thrive."

Then I rise from my knees, 
slower than in years past, but
so much more certain of 
love and what it can grow.