Everything that slows us down and forces
patience, everything that sets us back
into the slow cycle of nature, is a help.
Gardening is an instrument of grace.
May Sarton – courtesy of Wikipedia
We could set our watches by poor dirt farmers
rising with the birds in the fields. The Orioles show
within Redbud leaves, sing gleefully to the Burr Oak,
then visit the Palo Verde for a new limb to hang
a nest above the ripening strawberries, appraising
the near apricot, early and late peach, apples and pears,
especially the cherries—the price of a summer song,
the colorful return of old adversaries, first hot day.
We become part of a slow dance of certain cogs
and wheels that coast or disappear, slip and spin
to reengage into a familiar forward gear, swept-up
by seasons, sun and all our near neighbors busy
raising families, making good livings around us.
Shiny black feathers a glint in the sun, his beak
agape, he pants with wings unfurled to an upcanyon
draft and waits until she arrives at the water trough
for an evening drink together, all-day gathering
eggs, dodging posses of flycatchers through oak trees.
We do the same, tip our glass in the gloaming glad
another day is done, making plans for another.
*
Bob Blesse of Black Rock Press left this soothing epigram from May Sarton on Facebook a few days ago.
drycrikjournal 