Tag: Nature

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.

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.

A Time I Knew

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 

Digging a hole to plant some 
purslane, I found a penny,
old, worn, thin, dirty. I rinsed 
it in the kitchen sink and
squinted, then took a picture 
I could enlarge.
1982. 
I was 18. Graduated from
high school that May, then
off to college in August.  Feeling
grown, feeling alone, feeling
hopeful. The world ahead bloated 
with possibility.

If I hadn’t planted the purslane,
the penny might have remained 
buried for years or longer,
much longer, until it aged into
a relic from a time no one
would remember.  

Like this time will one day be – the
demons and the dangers and the demagogues
of this era rubbed thin and rusted
and hard to even read.  Buried. 
Spent. Their bloated possibilities
nothing but history, nothing but
the dirt-caked bones of a time 
no one will know.

Beginner’s Mind

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
Spring cleaning has me 
in the darkest corner 
of the sunroom with a
stick in hand, wrapping 
old webs around the far end
like drab cotton candy.

The spiders staked
their claim last fall,
orb-weavers, I think. I 
didn’t get too close,
and nights were longer and
cooler and spent indoors,
so I let them have the corner. 

When I reclaim it on a warm May
day, the abandoned webs cling 
listlessly to wall and screen
and bench and reach as if alive for
the oar I offer from a far shore. 

The weaver of the orb
mustn’t mind rebuilding her home. 
It seems to be the point, to start
again from the beginning.  

The cardinal builds a new 
nest every year, sometimes 
even twice.  
Moles burrow constantly and
don’t use the same tunnel again.

The hostas in my front yard disappear
completely each winter and always 
come back, from a tiny green peek 
through the dirt to a maturity even
grander than before, fueled by
energy both fresh and remembered. 

Everything starts over.  Life
is not always added to. 
It is sometimes
begun anew.