That Wind!

Well it stopped last night, that wind. 

Had whipped my not so long hair around my face like an unsuccessful lasso and I couldn't see. 

Frothy dead grass at my feet and I stumbled to the hose by feel. Don't trip!!

Drying the sunflowers I plant in waves of days starting in May. All that trouble, all that water and now a month of maturing stair step heights of sunflowers looking down, so heavy, for birds to jostle with others, upside down, for maturing seeds. The stems are trunks, won't compost well, but hold the heaviest, swelling fallen faces, so heavy, threatening to crash down in the wind. And sometimes there they are, when you follow the stepping stones around the corner, down.

I'm done now in September. I get hot, tired and depressed of the garden. And wind blown. But there are still some blooming sunflowers and tomatoes and weird curling up snake like cucumbers. 

Refusing to die to wind or heat.

Pots with no plants.

In the heat, roots, shrunk and stiff, struggle.
Just a sip of wet would do.
"This is not the time for watering."
The pronouncement like a belfry bell:
"Dead!", ten times.

Wells running low, threatening to go dry and sandy.

Sooty with gritty, fine sand mud.

Look. Turn out and dump the pot to see worms in the night cool.
The under-surface dampness is inviting.

Fat on the Stew

Sometimes there I sit, with the past. 
With the beyond and with the present, clear and crisp. 
The past is thick and greasy 
as fat floating on the surface of the stew.
Salty.
The present cool, stolid. 
Parts of the same soup, heating up to one, 
while I sit with both, 
breathing in, 
tasting.

Don't Tell Me

Don't try to tell me it'll all be all right because I slipped on a puddle of butterfly liquid; even though they don't really need our  food due to the fact that there are flowers blooming everywhere but just in case we keep the feeder full; and then fell awkwardly onto all fours and sprained that ligament goes from the foot to the ankle to the hip to shoulder to the wrist and that shoulder is already very sore because I almost dropped Thomas, but used all my strength and pulled my shoulder keeping him safe as he fell. Don't tell me I can't ride because I can't pull myself up, we'll figure a way. But this balancing problem; it's like balancing my life vs sanity. don't tell me I'm not depressed and wobbly and tired. Don't say it because you know it.

Sense

l can't seem to make Sense of it all.
So different than I had envisioned. 
Even as a child Even as a teenager. Even as an adult.
Even as old.

Would Sense include Dreams?
Or Wants or Needs or Sperm Whales Sleeping?

Just as I Am, Billy Graham sang.
Just as I am, yes, to the sky and He so open armed, I am, 
but someone else is making more sense?

don't think,
don't act,
don't move,
and fundamentally, finally 
don't talk.

If only I could stop all this thinking, maybe I could stop this telling.
Telling about the house dream and the round love dream.

Quiet isn't MY goal!
Not when I remember the sperm whales video.
Oh, NO.

The Beach

The Beach

I dreamt of the sea

where we used to go.

My father’s house,

Then my mother’s house.

Then someone, I don’t know,

who didn’t tear it down for a mansion.

Could’ve,

with the money it cost at the end of us.

But left it.

I dream often, of the front, long beach.

stretching out so far

into the waves.

It’s warm, the air, the sand, in my dreams.

Even the water.

I swim in the big soft waves, not terrifying,

as they would  really be.

Wonderfully warm and familiar.

I duck so to not be hammered down

to the creamy sand, often looking so innocent, 

not as in a dream reality,

heavy, slamming,

hard as a rock.

Even a tidal wave, a huge dangerous wave,

transparent turquoise and cream foaming,

somehow roars high over the house,

Gently. Then gone, as if not really there.

But I am quietly happy.

To be at the beach

Looking for my mom

Looking out for my dad

My sister beautiful brown and laughing.

My brother kind and surfing.

Then the dream turns to my oldest sibling,
dream ending,

taking care of the lunatic in the house at night in summer with phosphorescence. 

Maybe now the dreams will stop.

But I will miss their gentle warm lacy place.

retiring pressure

Where is peace in solitude?
Where is the travel, the joy?
The neat and tidy?

I can't find it in dark, worrying.
promises each night,
then each morning,
then after I water, check my phone, sew, craft, read, rest, pick up the remote.

Household promises left undone.

Ow, muscles tense, ache, grow weak.
Thinking slows, time draws long into dusk.

Work?
But nothing seems doable to an old woman.

So I rest.
after I water,
after computer,
after sewing,
after pens and glue,
after reading,
after rest.

Appreciation for those little ones saves that day, then I rest again.