Tuesday, July 9, 2019

The Weight of Stories - Poems for Mom

Bunny Purington on the Bridge of Flowers, July, 2015

A swirl of high clouds
between the retreating sun
and the frosted earth
My mother folds away the old quilts
that did not save her asters

Blue-painted beanpoles
in the new-planted garden
copper chimes flicker
I relax into the stillness
of growing things

This hepatica
whose freshness lasts for an hour . . .
if left in the woods
I wouldn't have seen it,
wouldn't have seen it wilt

Her sharp knife quick
to peel, core, slice the red apple
- we talk of childhood fears
how I blocked my ears
against the fairy tale

Tipped-over maple tree -
its deep roots released from earth
by too much rain
I also want to end my days
where I have always lived

West wind
shudders the farmhouse
I feast on comfort food
beside the garden catalogs
a kitten plays

By the attic stairs a
pot of rosemary
- at night the house creaks
under the weight of stories
no one ever threw away

   Tanka from Gathering Peace

Thursday, March 7, 2019

March 2019

Early morning in Colrain after the March 5, 2019 snowstorm.
March 5, 2019

Parting words
a window thrown open
to the spring evening

Mauve tulips
the garden shades
from twilight to dusk

Evening stroll
stopped. by the blank of peepers

White picket fence
on both sides

As you can tell, I’m impatient for spring. Farm Song is still a work-in-progress, with no deadline I dare announce.

Thursday, January 17, 2019

January 2019

Black-and-white cows
he opens the barn door
to a sky of stars

So cold so clear . . .
how many steps from here
to Orion

the kitchen table laid
with seed catalogs

Sink-full of dishes
kitchen walls streaked pink
by sunrise
Grandchildren in the farm kitchen, Spring 1998

Winter kitchen -
rereading the newspaper
before it feeds the fire

Snow on the road
on the fields, on the branches . . .
on the cardinal

p.s. "Farm Song" is still a work-in-progress, with more complications and more interruptions than I could have imagined.