Rocks

Inspired by new rock garden.

Rocks

If trees are the breath of the world,
then rocks are its soul.

They hold within their petrified  hearts
the stilled pulse of the world.

Transplanted from river beds and
ancient gorges to my suburban

garden they lend an air of indifferent
grandeur.  I have stolen them

From whence they came;  a poor attempt
at communion.  They bear it well.

Jutting and jagged they sit among the lilies
and the poppies.  With ancient calm

they breathe their memory of place into
mine.  And the earth and the air

and the birds and I listen intently,
then tuck their whispered song

into our living  hearts.

© Kathy Larson 2010

Heather wants the rain to come

Heather, my walking partner, was really, really wishing that we get some rain for her gardens today.  So, this is for her:

Heather wants the rain to come;
For the ground to be drenched,
For the leaves to sing a muted
city-dwelling forest song
as water cascades and drips
and dribbles to the earth
off their green and slender backs.
For the rain to seep and soak
and expand the rich black dirt
that holds this years plantings
of leeks and onions and chard.
Not to forget the tomatoes
. . . and pumpkins and corn!
So, gather the dark clouds
like  an umbrella of hope reversed
and bring on the blessing of rain.

Sunshine morning

my little primrose
I awoke to the sun shining in my window this morning.  I can’t tell you the feeling of joy that gave me.  Two solid weeks of cool, cloudy, rainy days had begun to take its toll.

Probably a big part of my problem yesterday.  There’s only so much gloom a girl can take.

So, in celebration, a little free verse:

What first catches my eye,
chiffon-yellow primrose
opened like a lover to the warm
breathless kiss of the sun.

Then, a finch trilling
a welcome to the day,
the sound of sunlight,
liquid gold pouring from his throat.

The trees are greener, gayer
branches swaying softly
brushing up against the blue
teasing the sun as it dances out of reach.

The Last of the Lilies

©October 27, 2009

The Last of the Lilies

by

Kathy Larson

They’re the last remnants of summer.
Scattered daintily among the detritus.

Beautifully dissonant, fading like sunsets,
They still my hands, my heart.

See us, they whisper.  Remember
Soft rain and drowsy bees.

Exotic perfume drifts silkily
On languid evening air.  A siren call.

Heavy-limbed, blood like honey,
I sway, recalling velvet lips, sweat-slick bodies.

The crunch of tires on gravel breaks my reverie;
A smile like the curve of a petal as I look up.

I will not pick these; the last of the lilies.

Today is a Beautiful Day

Today is a beautiful day.  It’s mid-October in Alberta and our brief too-early stint with winter is nothing more than a bad memory.  I’m looking forward to working in the yard tonight and then going to yoga for some much needed de-stressing.  I am extremely grateful that the weather is going to hold long enough for our new furnace to be installed.  My sister Lori called yesterday wondering if Tim and I would be interested in going to Antigua in January.  Interested?!  You bet!  Sadly, the cost of the new furnace eliminates the possibility.  Oh well, another time.  It’s something to dream about.

Because it is such a beautiful day I want to share the following poem, one of my absolute favorites, by Gerard Manley Hopkins:

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things —
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced — fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
(1877)