about the houseplants

At least, when they whither,

There are crumpled leaves to pick off.

I only notice them when there is nothing else to do.

My nurturing is an after thought, almost a mistake.

Others are, I imagine, cooing gentle angels of growth.

Their fingertips are like root-endings.

What is it, that I can cull, instead of encourage?

The dry, crinkled leaves remind me of crepe,

Or my winter-lips.

I understand the pulling off, the picking, the paring down.

I can feel the rough paper veins shatter

In my own dry palms.

New growth, that is a mystery, and I think

Bother, I shall probably drown you too.

I will worry you to browning.

At least, then, I’ll heed the call.

There must be undertakers, who in

brown and broken leaves

find purpose.

things that i do*

I pay my taxes, I meet Reindeer.

I stroll through the garden of (literally) Eden and turn to gold under an Aspen.

I drink too much wine.

I write a poem to the sunrise, to the hurricane, to the chickadee whose fluff is tousled, who must have met the blackberry.

I grind my teeth, the hangnail is infected again, I stub my toe. I see black ink dripping between my fingers, I spin the red base wheel of spirit.

I plant metaphorical seeds, I ignore the compost and toss the banana peel.

I smudge the corners and forget myself.

I paint a goldfinch, neglect the voicemail, and fall asleep early.

I meet my God in the grout.

*sometime in 2013

lilacs gone wild

I like our old and wild lilacs. No one has hummingly tended them, no gloved gardener in pleated work shorts has cinched her wide-brimmed hat and knelt or stretched for the dead brown sprays. They are ropey old broads, a collective of them. They’ve dispensed with show and gone for height. They are too wicked and busy to clear the unproductive suckers. Perhaps that’s where they hang their potions.

It’s the old turn-about. At first the scraggy shrubs sat on my chest like another chore, a should just about last in line behind getting the garden in and weeding the blueberries. I interpreted it according to me. My lilacs, my house, my judgment. What might people think of us, new-neighbors-with-their-abandoned-lilacs?

Now I couldn’t care less. I freaking love those goddamn winners. If I stop thinking about myself for one hot second they explode in wild, exquisite singularity. I don’t think anyone planted them – or someone planted one a good long time ago and they’ve spread by suckers ever since. No one can really see them, anyway. They have their own agenda. They are twisted with ragged bark, like old grape or laurel. They reach away from the shade of the oak, into my shaggy lawn. Neighboring alpacas nibble their backsides.

I suppose they are cultivars, and as such might be happy with some attention and care and coaxing. But I’m not eating them any time soon – I’ll diligently prune the apples and raspberries. I don’t even care if they stop flowering. I want to see what those gnarly old birds can do. 

sensory time, late summer

“August” doesn’t mean a thing, not really. Or “July” or “September,” for that matter. Summer says something, and late summer even more, but still it makes one wonder whether you are referring to Chronos’ clock or the content of the year. Tell me where we are, when the shadows fall, and what the light is doing, and on whom it’s falling.

Are we at dandelion, after bud but before bedstraw? Are the hemlocks still two-toned with their fresh new growth? Tell me about the jewelweed – cotyledon stage, those two first juicy sprouts? Or is its gooey stem yet the size of your thumb? Are we after its orange upside-down cornucopia flowers, in the midst of springing seed pods? Then the sunchokes must be out, taking the place of the black-eyed susans. Have the acorns fallen? And the milkweed! Tell me about the milkweed. Leaf, bud, purplish-pink flower? Green pod or brown? This will tell me if I need a sweater.

If the fields are covered in milkweed flowers, here is summer’s height. Past the fervor of solstice, warmer languid days, with autumn still far off. I know how quickly to walk, I know to still expect a warbler here and there, I know there are still plenty of swimming days left. If the flowers are gone and the pods are green, then perhaps the nights are chilly. There may be back-to-school sales, and the Virginia creeper might be flushing scarlet, and the sumac too, just at their tips. An errant leaf aflame. But the days are still warm and slow. Brown pods, though, and the crows are calling more insistently. The thrushes have probably left, with most of the warblers. It’s still robins, and the goldfinches will dominate.

Use your ears, too, they can tell time. Stand under a silver maple or a cottonwood. Do they whisper? Rustle? Rattle? Your chosen onomatopoeia will let me know. If the cottonwood downright clacks I I’ll be eating macouns. When the crickets slow to a stop, and the robins are absent in the lengthening evening, it’s time for vests, maybe a hat, and I ought to remember to put the scraper in the car, because there’s certainly morning frost. The full moons have names that situate one in place in addition to time, but so could every individual crescent or new moon or waning gibbous.

un-knowing, and putting the guidebooks down

Last night I mistook buttercups for fireflies, in the gray twilight in the meadow. Bright despite approaching dark, my mind drew an unexpected map. This error was error not in being, but only in light and unmattering category. Mistaken sight is sight, and often illuminating (this is the work of metaphor, to complicate or cross the assumptions of regularly worn pathways, to undo habit and inspire seeing).  In early May I took up my field guides and binoculars again, and for a week or so I did not go anywhere without them. There is so much to find and file, to seek and name. Quickly, though, I started to leave them behind.

The paradox of knowing and understanding is cloudy. This past year I’ve read and written less than I have in a very long time. Perhaps it’s simple dormancy, but there’s something inside that wishes to shed instead of add. The arc of learning is long, and the stages are hard to see except from a distance.

Some of the best birding advice I’ve read was, interestingly, to put down the books and just keep looking. There are times on walks that I wish I knew less, despite the relative little I know. To sink into presence, to still the wheeling of mental classification, which requires distance from the current phenomenon in order to plumb my memory stores.

Like the Christmas tree. Glasses on, the details of the ornaments and individual lights are clear, each readily identifiable. Glasses off, it becomes a radiating whole, boundaries are let go and the whole merry thing sings to you at once.

Besides the bliss ignorance of, say, invasive species would bring, I often wish I could blur the scenes I walk through in order to see more clearly. To stand like the cottonwood, who cannot name a warbler, its toes in the riverbank and arms in the sun. To have the wind empty me of what is inconsequential. Leaving space, becoming the reed who sings not of beauty but is sung through, without name.

going to parties in spring with birds

This morning is the first gray, stormy morning of the year – humid wind turning new kelly leaves upside-down, tiny songbirds with ruffled feathers surfing on wild branches. It’s an electric exhilaration I didn’t know I missed so much.

There are a whole host of things – words, experiences, memories, feelings – I haven’t realized I’ve missed while in the depths of winter’s dormancy. The months of this long, cold winter and late spring have left both the internal and external sap slow to rise. There are, of course, lessons to be learned in the wait of winter, including the understanding that to a tree or hibernating woodchuck the very experience of waiting depends upon a conception of future itself (what would it be like to live entirely in the present? To unfold daily, to simply respond accordingly to one’s surroundings?).

But now everything is springing, and soon will all have sprung. I wrote before that fall is a verb, and so is spring. The action is fast, cascading, accelerating every single day. The world changes before our eyes. We are on the inhale of the year. In a week we went from bud to leaf (days in the high seventies were a help), in two days the purple dame’s rocket took over the trailsides. The fruit trees blossomed and went to leaf, the nettles are up, and succulent little jewelweed cotyledons are out just this morning. And the birds!

All these somersaulting changes lead me to understand that the only way one could possibly witness this rapid unfolding is by looking. In the same place. Every day. The past decade or so has been mind-bogglingly peripatetic for me, as it is for many people in their twenties, especially people engaged in seasonal work.  There is value to breadth of experience, but more and more I’m appreciating depth, the clearer understanding that comes with staying. We’ve been in the same place now for a whopping seventeen months, the longest I’ve lived anywhere. But you can learn a lot in that time, especially if you happen to have a dog.

Daily, repeated walks are a gift and a tutor. Every day, at the same time, we walk the trail by the brook that runs into the Winooski, bordered by boxelder, dogwood, and willow (as well as the invasive goutweed and knotweed). While somewhat suburban, it’s also thriving bird habitat. Here is where I get to experience the rush of spring at its height. For the past month, every two days or so I get to welcome a new resident. First the robins, then the grackles and blackbirds, next the ever-present song sparrow, with its song that sounds like dial-up internet. Next came the flycatchers, the phoebe and the peewee, timed, of course, to the explosion of flying insects. A week and a half ago I started hearing the ‘tsee-tsee-TSEE-o!’ of the American redstart (a showy bird I can almost never see). Finally, four days ago, the yellow warbler showed up (sweet sweet sweet little more sweet), and, yesterday, the common yellowthroat, with its smashing black mask and witchity-witchity song. It feels like a crescendo - one I would not be able to experience if I hadn't been present throughout the entirety of the song so far. I feel like a hostess as some great gathering, whose doorbell keeps ringing with new arrivals. It’s a lovely feeling, and one that brings celebration and great relief. 

Because, I mean, after that winter, I think we do deserve a party. And birds are very entertaining guests.

along the reservoir in winter

Sometimes you can only walk alone.

Even when, at the point of the path that in the winter meets the frozen water, the ravens croak, as if to you. And the way is so clear, and the sun is obliging, making the whole set sparkle (the dry goldenrod are of course encased in ice), and when you stop there is no sound. Not even your breath.

Even then, you cannot turn to anyone else to say ‘look, look at this! Look at this place I have come, look how the world has swelled around me.’ No one can stand behind your eyes. (Please do not take a picture; where is your heartbeat? The groaning ice? The stillness?)

And because, also, this would not happen. Footsteps in the crusty snow are so loud, they are a wild racket, and when you stop the other who has come with you generally won’t stop exactly then, the ravens' croaks will be off, muffled by another’s crunching walk. (Someone with four paws can come, perhaps, who senses before even you when you will stop, who in fact lives in sense and so cannot interrupt it).

And there is a world between people, especially the ones you love the most, and it cannot be set aside. Ribbons of life infused with care and history and hope circle between you, color the space surrounding you, divide your loving attention (this is nothing terrible, but lovely and its own Thing). A living, breathing inter-life comes with you, and in the still strung winter it is as raucous as an orchestra. Here you can marvel, only differently.

Sometimes you can only walk alone, and you must sharply, sweetly understand that no one else can stand behind your eyes.