The Grateful Shrub

This morning, a little ditty about gardening and growth is up at Tweet Speak Poetry: "I picked the wrong year to plant new shrubs..." - The Grateful Shrub

It's the beginning of the annual Ashland University MFA Program summer residency, so I am up to my eyeballs with fun and writerly stuff.  Andre Dubus III just left after two energy-filled days of his presence.  What a great time!  Laura Kasischke arrives tomorrow.

That's all for now - hope you enjoy the little article, and pray that it rains a little so my garden doesn't die these two weeks!

Turning Over Earth

I am woefully behind on my 30th year goal to blog once a week.  To recap since April, poem-a-day went fairly well and generated a good chunk of material plus an essay I'm excited about, Brandon traveled a lot for work, I worked a lot for work, Henry turned one, Lydia turned six, we celebrated all over the place, soccer is almost over with no horribly embarrassing mom-fail moments, t-ball has begun, and summer hours are back. Whew!

The New Landscape

The New Landscape


I've bundled branches, sawed stumps low,
cut down in twenty minutes
what took years and years to grow.

What do you think the neighbors know
about the severed limbs that jut
from bundled branches, their stumps sawed low?

The taxus and squared boxwood woe
the push and pull as the hand saw cuts
down what took them forty years to grow.

A younger resident, I want to show
ambitious feats to hide my ruts
I left from bundled branches, stumps sawed low.

Even though the overgrown are gone, I know
I will remember every butt
of what took forty years to grow.

So leave the Rose of Sharon shoots to show
a fragment of the past, stubborn infant
witness to the bundled branches, stumps sawed low –
I, too, am a remnant of what took years and years to grow.

The Gardener Exhibits His Work

The Gardener Exhibits His Work


“Let me show you my garden,” so I follow him
out the back patio. Aromas overwhelm the air –
vines of roses pruned, trimmed, and trained to climb
the trellis, blooms loosed like curls. Lilac groves multiply
their purple flowers, precision mathematic, the scent
of infinity on the breeze. The garden is strategic –
violas, azaleas, peonies, lilies, delphiniums,
chrysanthemums, holly – color for each season.

I am in awe - extravagance, investment, creativity! -
turn to tell him so but he is still walking,
ducking under split rails. I sprint after him,
leap rows of recent tulip cultivars, spy a line
of weeping cherries, orchards heavy in fruit.
He’s in the field now, weeds waist-high.
Hands stroke grasses in seed, shattercain,
poison hemlock, Canada thistle, dandelions,
Queen Anne’s lace. I glance over my shoulder
at the ordered garden behind the fence.

“What do you think?” he asks, spreading his arms
to encompass all this timeless wildness, this freedom.

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I just had an idea for another poem that might be a little more entertaining and perhaps less predictable than this one. I'll see what I can put together tonight ;)