through the night’s darkness
an icy mist fell
fog floats over the earth
like a grey phantom
nothing left untouched
dampness drips from the landscape’s heavy bones
a mystical mist
mother earth’s breath
trapped in the fallen sky
silently heaven’s soft kiss moves in
sunrise sweet lips
a gentle warmth reached
chill crumbles in the face of light
numbed emotions thaw
mysterious meanings revealed
I walk with my feelings
towards light’s waiting kiss
lost in the shadows
“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.”~ Robert Louis Stevenson
The woods are slow to fill up with snow and cold this winter. I have yet to wear more than one layer of wool when walking Wally. Old man winter’s unpredictable emotions keep me wary. The snow shovel and extra woollies will be kept within reach. Unable to enjoy the usual playful snow activities has left a void in this winter. Then with impeccable timing they came! Slow at first. Soon opening the mailbox needed to be done with great care. Or an avalanche of shiny slippery catalogs would land on the ground.
One staple of the dark white season I can always count on is currently piling up on my kitchen counter. I save them for those especially long dreary days—seed catalogs! They come at a time when forgiveness for last year’s garden disappointments is easy to offer up. I’m ready for another go at the garden’s blank canvas.
I have my favorites, the tried and true. Oh, but on the next catalog page I’m tempted to believe the “too good to be true”. The colorful photos and persuasively written descriptions fill me with anticipation. Small seeds of optimism take hold with a promise to grow.
Life is like a mailbox full of seed catalogs. You never know what opportunities optimism will grow.
Wishing you and yours the best from life in 2019.
Spring seed catalogs
loyal as my old dog
piled up on the table
a late winter mailbox staple.
Slippery glossy pages for some
no frills no fancy for others
black ink on plain paper
for this one.
New and improved promises to create
bountiful blooms on the garden’s clean slate
last year’s disappointments easily forgiven
with one glance to the next page
I escape from winter’s white prison.
Favorite varieties come first
the tried and true-blue
but then there are the new
that make you utter, “Oooo”!
Could they be too good to be true?
Colorful descriptions shout
no pest no drought will kill you out
this one will grow anywhere
without a doubt!
In deep winter optimism can be hard to muster
these light moments keep their luster
dog-eared pages mark the best
scorn the limits on the sum to invest!
Thank you gratitude
Reflection of kindnesses
Everything’s a gift
September 29th was the one year anniversary of this blog. I struggle with words to communicate the depth of my gratitude to all of you that have given a moment of your attention to view or like my posts. You can’t imagine the joy I feel from those small gestures of kindness.
In the future, the posts will be more spontaneous then scheduled. Fields, family and four-legged’s keep life full. Writing posts will be more in the flow with the work demands of living close to the land. What I’ve learned from my blog journey can be summed up in this beautiful Mary Oliver quote, “Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.”
Summer is drowsy.
Fall wraps a colorful shawl over her shoulders.
apple fragrance perfumes the crisp air.
In the orchard, youth’s tang has mellowed.
Tart and hard surrender.
Wolf River. Prairie Spy. Lodi. Zestar.
Bashful pink blushes streak down each apple.
Voluptuous ornaments adorn the length of each and every limb.
Branches bow as gracefully as the necks of swans.
Sweet wood bares sweet fruit.
McIntosh. Cortland. Red Delicious. Granny Smith
Teeth crush down through flesh.
Taste the juicy ripeness of a season’s end.
Running sky blue clear.
Soul sweet deep.
Wipe your chin ready.
Gala. Sweet Tango. Empire. Honey Crisp
Summer’s youth wanes,
each day riper with fullness,
Phlox’s bright eyes open wide.
A delightfully lovely fragrance,
once cradled in her bosomy blooms,
now billows gently in the breeze.
Hot pink petals aflame,
devour the green scenery,
burning off the heat’s heaviness.
A Sphinx Moth visits,
humming above nectar filled flowers,
long tongues dip into wells of sweetness.
The cool of the evening,
invites me back for a visit.
I sit enchanted by the tall aristocratic beauty.
Phlox, you are the queen of my garden empire.
I bow to you.
By the shift in the winds direction and speed I can tell the weather is about to change abruptly. The sky’s sunny disposition is no match for the clouds angry demeanor. As Wally and I make a bee line for the shelter of the shed they come, sweet drops of rest.
I take a seat on an overturned pail near the open shed door, peering through the curtain of rain. Wally waltzes over for a scratch behind the ear then lies on my feet. The distinct odor of wet lab cuts through the scent of fresh rain. I breathe in both deeply. There we sit, work waiting, listening to the peaceful rhythm of the rain. Peaceful because there is no hay cut or seed to put in the ground. Rain and I have a fluid relationship. To a farmer rain can be a curse and a blessing. Weather is a master at teaching acceptance. Over the years, I’ve learned to move with the rhythm of the rain.
While thoughts tossing and turning in my mind are put to sleep by the rain’s song, I feel content. We control uncontrollable circumstances by choosing how we cope with them. Today, I’m choosing to sit and listen to the sweet drops of wisdom coming to rest in my soul.