Thursday, November 11, 2010

Cracked Open

Our heels crack from weary walkabout. 

Minds crack and shatter wanting to fold. 

Hearts crack without tears. 

Skin cracks and peels from lack of moisture. 

Heads crack against buttresses impenetrable. 

Our bones crack from heavy packs. 

Finally, our very souls crack open 
wetting cracked lips.

 It's the only way to find our voice. 

Take courage my friend. Being cracked open lets your story out. It is still being written. 

Bird Below

White bird
circling high
above the valley
weaves a bouquet of
mountains together
below me

Waimea Canyon, Kauai. November 2010

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Playground for Light

End of season fluff 
used to be harvested
by tribal prairie people
for diaper filling 
and women's flow.
 Bed mats too, softening 
sleep on earthen floors.
Soft cotton free and plentiful.
Back then? 

Farmers hate it like 
gardeners hate dandelions.
 One strong gust spreads 
millions of floating seeds waiting
to root. Blackbirds roost and 
nest in cattail marshes before
deciding to strip a field of 
sunflower seeds. 

"But wait, please don't kill the cattails" ~ I pled.

My first firefly show
happened here
long ago. 
The glow of it
 has yet to dim. 

Gallant Loverby 
got wet catching
one buzzing light ~
a love trophy for 
me, his new bride.
Captured magic 
~love's light~
magnified in 
a mason jar. 

This fall, Loverby stopped to let me take a picture at a thriving cattail colony in the slough. It was still there in spite of planes spraying for complete eradication all those years ago. I had gone crazy when I realized they were systematically trying to rid the prairie of magical places where fireflies played. When I came stumbling into the house sobbing because the planes were spraying overhead with a vengeance - my mother in law held me and cried with me. She explained that the blackbirds came in hoards like locusts and cleaned out the sunflower fields. The cattail sloughs were their breeding ground. They would have no harvest to harvest if something wasn't done. I hated not being able to offer an alternative.

I was an idealistic young woman raging against the destruction of the place where cotton batting grew free, and light played and lived.

 I still don't notice blackbirds. 

Cellar Remains


Playmates won't slide down this cellar 
door. It is gone like the house above. 
Rocks split on the grain 
were dry stacked flush 
by hard hands.
 An artist holding hammer 
and chisel raised the puzzle 
one row at a time. 
Small rocks 
fill empty spaces
big ones balancing careful 
until corners meet 
woven and strong. 
This cool dark hole 
preserved harvest well
until the long winter was done.
Homestead wives 
went down stairs outside 
to the store around 
   the corner  
         their porch.