it's like sugar and fruit in here. in a good way.
imagine trumpets or horns heralding this sweet season between
snow and sweat—of motion and motion and palpable motion.
every living thing commits to movement: in their own order and color—
in all sicknesses and cities. if one understands a garden, they know
there is work to be done, but i can't get over the sound
of my name through the grit of a phone call. and what?
most things are small, shifting, and meaningless.
what i'm trying to say is, the meaning is never apparent.
i like the mandarins that come with leaf and branch attached. i hadn't seen this before until i moved to Michigan, as if here, they understand how to keep fruit in tact—as if there is deep tenderness in midwestern hands. as if we can preserve some of the pretty. this is the careful handling of life that didn't ask to end. there have been many portraits and poems of citrus in my vicinity as of late—i notice this because it is May, and most of us are ready to tie a floating thing to our wrist and follow it.
in the spirit of setting-things-aside, we follow.
what better time for wandering, than when this little earth opens
and invites? now, again, i'm telling you in trees and thousands
in gold and clouds—even without the lantern—there can be flowers. even when i don't know
what to say—even when there are stars underfoot, upside-down, and the word "flower" has lost
its meaning. especially when everyone has left.
nobody is left.
nobody is begging you
to be noble, or even
we appreciate the sound of wind chimes or spilled alcohol.
possibly, at all times, we are allowed to smile—or
we are being invited to smile. still, there can be
daises underfoot, if only you know where to look. (of course, we don't)
we carry the delicate and the stunning
in a basket so full it's impossible to find.
we wonder what happened
to the love at the bottom of the basket.
we want to scoop up the tchotchkes—
we put them all on the same sorry shelf.
the truth is, you've heard this story before—and
what we wanted was in the basket the whole time,
as the peace in laughter of a chatty evening,
because of all light and weightlessness.
nobody is immune from joy, nor the temporality.
this is part of what makes me with desire to press onward, despite. some nights weigh more than others: some nights i am a point. some nights i am a line. living is much like ridding your ivy of mealybugs. if you manage to remove the bugs, so much is lost in the process—all the kind leaves.
amidst the strangeness, it is necessary to remain seven-years-old,
taking expert delight in transitions. each moment slow and honest:
every kitchen floor and every bed of grass
met with brush and forgetfulness. outside
i held a gecko at eye-level and called her my best friend
placed her in a shoe box—intended savior behavior. all
sand-wonder & waiting forever. when we held water in our hands,
it stayed there for years. now, how quickly the landscapes shift.
suddenly, we are free and unable to be.
when these shifts occur, i grab on and try to love it—with whatever spirit is at my disposal. after all, change is not so far away from chance. so we run with change, and we set the table (a kitchen, like a garden, is a confession, and nothing less). most of the dinner party remains unseen—all the guests are tiny creatures below the soil, moving and mixing, making space for beloved roots' expansion. creating tunnels. connecting. so much good work happens in the dark. we are weaving between one another, captive and not malicious. we all arrived here, despite our fear. the most beautiful thing i've seen in years—there are fresh berries and bread and full bottles of wine. and there,
at the wild-grown table, i hear everyone chanting joy, joy, joy.
by everyone, i mean a collection of people i haven't met yet.
our bodies are our gardens, and our wills our gardeners - shakespeare