Planting Day

Oh, I had a post planned with pics of my alleged knitting and all but, silly me, I didn't account for the fact that it is Planting Day. Really, it is 'the beginning' of many days of planting but as we have planted 25 lbs. of potato seed, 250 onion sets, 15 shallots and some carrots maybe if I finish dinner in time and get my sunburnt arse back out there before it is too dark. Tomorrow, and the next day, and for the next week, really, all manner of vegetables, herbs, and flowers will be planted with a hope and some really good seed.

We didn't get the bees. I was a little disappointed but kinda proud of myself for making a decision that went against my desire but with my better judgement. The cost of bees has tripled since we first tried it three years ago (alas, I didn't know about mites, then) and with two little piglets and about 30 birds coming in the next two weeks, I decided maybe Farm-Witch has met her match, what with the 1+ acre garden and the sheepies and that crazy llama. I swear, two out of three days I let him out of the barn out front so he can eat the trees he prefers over grass and he stays put all day being good. On day three, he turns in either direction and then takes off and I look for him for hours. Is it the wind? Something I said? I am starting to think I'll never know.

I guess SOME bunnies have noticed that my posting has been sparse and sometimes lethargic and senseless - hopefully I will be better in a week or two when I am not contemplating a small apartment with a garden tub somewhere where I won't ever feel the pain of putting gas in the tank to get anywhere. I wasn't going to resort to spouting poetry at ya'll but I may have to. I hate to say 'I told you so' and I hate even worse to hear it. BUT! Too many years ago, a presidential race was lost and won and bought and paid for and I sat in my small herb shop crying. Customers came and went and assured me that the newly elected was totally a superficial body and not much harm could come from his power. Today, too many families will embark on a weekend wherein the detail of said harm will be powerfully painful. I wrote this poem years ago, when we (as a country) decided to invade Iraq. My stomach ached and I felt like the crying of ancient mamas everywhere were asking us to be braver than we could, stronger than the money tide, and to believe that this level of disaster might really be our destiny. I hope you like the poem....if not, please don't tell me I suck. With an English degree that sits collecting dust and bills that scream like howlers when I open them - trust me, I don't want to know.

Gingham in the Ink Spot


If not for harvest dust
that clung to the gingham curtain
I might not have found myself
pondering the repetitive nature
of things that torture me - like dusting.

I hated dusting when you were seven
we went for a walk in the woods instead.
Echo, “I will protect you, Mom,” with a stray
branch stolen from the snowy forest floor.
Smile if you remember.

The phone always rings
when I am in the closet.
Wiping the surface of a darker memory
hollow, cool - but not a stain.
Hungry like hurting.

A box, high on the shelf.
I should have thought of that before
steal you from the draft that had no wind
scribble ‘return to sender’ on the card.
Forgive me if it is too small.

It’s only that I didn’t know
what to do with you
when they sent you home
in the manila envelope.

(c) copyrighted