Poem-a-day catchup

[greenstorm]

PDA tactic: do it before you need it, so it doesn't feel like pressure.

#12 Epic of the first sunburn

The door is barely open when crisp lively air dances in to caress arms
That weren’t meant to be bare but maybe?
Shove feet into dusty sandals and it’s all sunshine on one side
And chill on the other
Body vibrating in perfect balance between giving and receiving heat
Somehow the air is clearer
Far things more inviting
Like that patch of green that, wait, is that
The first stinging nettles? That’ll be
Breakfast but no time to go in and get scissors
The trick of sliding fingers with the stinging hairs is trickier now
But a mild tingle on the fingertips is surely a small price to pay.
Bending down to pick invites the cat
Who purrs and rubs and half-climbs to chinmark
Knee and shoulder. He receives his pats, well-deserved
(He left a mouse for the dog for breakfast this morning,
Very thoughtful of him) until a neighbour walks by.
Call the dogs back from barking, wave, oh wait
The raspberries are full of dead canes, better
Set a bucket to fill (the water is acting up, it’s slow)
Before grabbing the pruners and deciding: one row or two? Do I limit the height?
While thinking last year’s dead canes can be pulled out
Maybe I should dig up the extras and post them to the garden group?
Or wasn’t there a person at work who wanted them?
Which reminds me, it’s getting late to send my corn seed out.
I should go in and package it up so I can drop it at the post office
But first, while I’m out here, is that apple tree ready for grafting yet?
No, it winterkilled. Maybe favas should go there?
There might be enough room for more greens too.
This debris should go into the firepit, it needs to be gone
Before this gets tilled for favas.
Pick up sticks.
Pick up rocks.
That sun is glorious.
A very good dog requires snuggles midway through
And oops! I can hear the bucket of water is full.
Replace it with an empty one
Carry the full one down to the geese
Eep, my elbow is pinching again
I should be doing this in two buckets
Or at least making willow baskets, that seems to help
Swirl, rinse, fill, the geese converge on their pool with outstretched necks
For a gregarious territory battle-cum-orgy
Social groups draw battle lines:
White and brown chinese geese in one group, a pilgrim and his roman mate in another
A saddleback and four ladies in a third.
Who knew geese could stack themselves four high?
That is definitely a point against that essay
On how geese are the perfect example of monogamy.
This is the first basket-weaving year
So it’s best to have more willow than required
But with no sense of what’s required
The end of willow harvest will be dictated
By budburst
Climb over the fence to check, yes, too late to collect more
But these roses are awfully thick
And is that an escaped duck on the sewage lagoon?
Well.
She can stay there, I guess.
I had missed rose scratches on my arm.
Somehow it’s got warmer, sticky,
And climbing back over the fence my skin smells like dust and fresh sweat
My fingers still tingle with nettles
And light scratches ping on my legs.
Canada thistle is popping up on the way back
It made a big patch last year
This year it needs either regular tilling
Or cardboard laid down.
This is as good a time as any to bring the cardboard around from the front yard
But on the way the gate needs adjusting
Dogs should be able to get over,
Geese should not
To protect the would-be clover lawn around the house
Which should really be seeded soon, maybe even this morning,
Though right before a rain would be better.
Another bucket of water is full, this one for the pigs, and that water looks so good
It’s definitely warmed up
And I am definitely thirsty
Maybe just pop in to grab a drink--

Wait, what? How did it get to be lunchtime?


#13

I own the land, they say
But the trees grow anyway

I own the land, they say
But the birds are here and gone without invitation

I own the land, they say
But the rain comes when it will
And leaves when it wants

I own the land, they say
But still the snow melts to its own schedule

I own the land, they say
But the soil was here before my mother’s mother

I own the land, they say
But the wind blows down my fences nevertheless

I own the land, they say
They put it on a piece of paper:
Backwards, upside-down
The truth is that
The land owns me.

#14 Self-sufficiency

Every dead thing supports you.
Not a metaphor, but
Shoes made from dead dinosaurs
And soil made from plants
eaten by animals
eaten by cells
upon cells
and so on
back to the beginning
Your home designed by people long dead
Roads constructed from formulas
Developed by ancestors lost to the mists of time
And installed by people who now lie under headstones.

With so many who helped you dead
No wonder you’re afraid to ask help from the living.