winter darkness
cradles me
long past my writing hour
I’m still adapting to time
and seasons
yes, I have been deep in sheets
dreaming
I was picking kumquats
larger than my hand
even though it is still
completely dark
the clock says Jeb will wake
breakfast calls
this morning
I am a sleepy mother
dreaming of a fruitful harvest
with little time for words
to share
so here’s a call
to write your own
add a comment here
together
we can still make poetry in winter
“Are you ready?”
The Bohemian is smiling down and cooing at fresh vegetable starts. Kale, parsley and basil, all sprouted from seed are about to go in the ground.
We’ve been elbow deep in soil and horse manure, turning over garden beds with our forearms. We’ve pulled weeds, separated stones and shaped a home with our palms. The beds prepped, the spaces plotted, the next step is planting.
Like everything else with this man so far, the garden work is easy. Smooth and intuitive. Pleasant, actually.
We pat the new plants into place while he whistles low and happy. His hands move deliberately, carving out spaces with care. Occasionally he’ll shower them with a carbon dioxide prayer, lulling softly, “beautiful garden.” I think I saw the parsley lift its leaves and curve toward him. Because he’s like that, you know. Be it plants or animals, they rise up basking in his presence.
People, too, it’s true.
But before one can pin him to the ethereal realms of St. Francis of the plant and animal kingdom, he turns downright practical. Opens a bag full of tools and dismantles the faulty deadbolt on my front door. Locking mechanisms are removed, oiled well, tightened or loosened, rearranged…I don’t’ know what he does. Something. What I do know is that when he’s done with the screwdriver and his Rubik’s cube-like, dexterous manipulations, my lock and key move with unprecedented ease.
Even Jeb notices. “Hey, I can unlock the door myself now!”
Back in the garden beds, we saved room for more planting. He’s set on growing garlic even though he’s heard it’s hard. I tell him he can have a space here to give it a try.
Then our imaginations outgrow the present boxes. He’s already building another raised bed in his mind, tracing its size with his finger, mid-air, doubling what we have. We rattle off the list of food we’d like to plant there.
I suggest some marigolds. Ahh…I’d really like arugula too. He’s smiling. He knows where I bask. Just nods his head and breathes a little prayer my way, grinning.
“Yes, Jess.”
I can’t help it. I’m smiling too.
Curve a little closer.
In the filling moon’s light, inner tides churn with dramatic ebbs and flows. Yesterday words bubbled, curled and crashed in waves, presenting three posts to the Archives. Whoa. That’s a first.
It goes like this, I’ll tell you.
A rush of inspiration to dig deep to the root of feeling, then share it with as much candor as I can. The Publish button clicked, my words echoing out into the world.
It’s only later – maybe I’m driving in the car – that all those syllables seem like scattered sea spray. Or seeds caught on a sudden gust of wind. Copious and aimless, it all will feel too much of me. And so will go the inner recanting. I become the fisherman reeling in the line. I want to make a U-turn to the inside, go silent.
If I’m living yes and no, walking a tideline that shifts in dramatic highs and lows, where is the center where I can steady? Is it in words or silence? Or in some space between?
Whether casting lines or reeling in, my heart seems to stay stitched on my sleeve. 
And case in point, I wasn’t going to tell you this. But it arises like a surge of a rogue wave.
About the heart. The one inside. The one he listened to with his ear against my chest when we first met. “It sounds like a little bell.”
Last night he says the beat has changed. “It sounds different. It’s deeper, more full. There’s more life in it now. Not like that little bell before.”
See, I was going to be silent about the swells that move these inner beats. The pumping of a sweetness found with a man who will listen to my heart beat and tell me what he hears.
That’s the casting.
Now I’m reeling in.
For the Archives 