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   Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 26-Nov-2023 10:36:13 JST Moira

   decembering in the orchard

   All that is left is the Granny Smiths; she
   Loves that they cling to their shivered tree,
   Leaves long gone. Even the hens have left off

   Trusting the sky to toss them sugar, and
   Have retired to their tractor, pecking
   At storebought feed in its styrene bin.
   The winds whistle through, rasping

   Ink-black twigs together; the apples nod and
   Stub their green bellies. She

   Lifts ten or so down, as if they were
   Each one of her own breasts, tenderly
   Filling her small basket. In the kitchen
   They will sit shyly waiting their turn:

   It is the season for other foods; in
   Stoneware bowls, nuts and citrus

   Talk among themselves in distant tongues.
   Here her hands make outland meals,
   Even finding work for lemon skins.

   Granny Smiths are not much favored,
   Really, by her guests; in festive mood, if an
   Apple is desired, they'll reach for waxed,
   Not thinking of that one tree, struggling
   Night and day to keep for them fresh joy.
   Yet she knows she cannot blame them;

   Shy apples do their best in pie.
   Moonlight limns the fruit she did not pick;
   If some green globes remain at large tonight,
   The morning light will prove, tomorrow,
   Holiday for those that cannot buy.
   Squirrels and towhees will know what to do.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 26-Nov-2023 10:36:11 JST Moira

     in reply to

     That time when there is yet nothing,
     Her skills being at rest, synchronized
     And sympathetic with soil's sleep --
     Timid buds of lilac or jonquil still

     Tucked within themselves -- she wonders
     If she's even a subsistence woman, is
     Mistaken in that as so much else, as when
     Even deep snow cannot efface what

     Winter erases when it is nearest spring.
     Her hands stretch to packaged seeds;
     Enter into bargains with their quietude.
     Now? Now? Now? Now? she asks them,

     Though she knows they will not move.
     Here by a cold window she spreads
     Envelopes on her table: peas, beets.
     Radishes will be first, nearest the house.
     Even now she smells them, lifted, bitten.

     Is there nothing that can be done?
     She asks for the hundredth time.

     You'd think the mud would dry a little,
     Evenings come later, mornings earlier,
     The birds nest and sing, daisies open!

     No. Tools rest in their ranks, sharpened,
     Oiled. Clouds pass, low, lightless, sulking.
     The arbor's done, fences, orchard,
     Heaps heaped. All she needs today
     Is that this blank month turn a little
     Nearer sun, before her plot of earth
     Grazes on forgetfulness too soon.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 26-Nov-2023 10:36:12 JST Moira

     in reply to

     weather is a thing

     Weather is a thing, now, she tells herself,
     Every day surprising -- week, month
     And season. When, whether and what
     To plant, or how to schedule visits with
     Her friends or family, across a pass or
     Even in lowlands. Storm clouds will
     Roll in, blizzards, fire, a tornado. She

     Is sure there's easy weather somewhere
     Such times as freezing fog, wind, or

     A heatwave shuts her in. She'll admit

     There are good days for her yet
     Here beneath her patient apple trees.
     If weather is a thing, so is simplicity.
     Never waste a calm day, she says:
     Go see trilliums, bespeak beargrass,

     Nod to daisies, curtsy to wise willows.
     On such days, forget falling trees and hills,
     Water rising. Love life while you can.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 26-Nov-2023 10:36:12 JST Moira

     in reply to

     petrichor*

     This time of year that room is not much visited.
     Its herringbone-patterned floor of worn bricks
     tilts here and there where rodents have made inroads.

     Homemade flats lie heaped in corners; stacks of cells
     lean sleepily together; insulation dangles;
     tools hang, festooned with webs and dust. Sometimes

     when the door has been set ajar, a towhee wanders in,
     becomes confused at light from so many windows,
     beats itself silly, then rests, is eventually found

     and shown the way out. There's not much
     an old lady can do but wait, watching for
     earlier suns to rise, for petrichor,

     for that sudden dislocation brought on
     by stepping into sunshine by a southern wall.
     Then, after one jonquil blooms by way of

     affirmation, she'll step in, rearrange things,
     dust her work bench and stool, bring seeds,
     open the soil bin, grab a pot, begin.

     __________________________________
     *The odor of dry earth moistened by rain.

     Robbie Norlyn, Author 👾 repeated this.
   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:36 JST Moira

     in reply to

     In a garden's grave, life remains: beets
     Never pulled may be pulled now, to boil

     And put back, for the flock to discover;

     Greens have carried on and are taken
     And dehydrated, or left for the goose to strip;
     Red highlights show missed tomatoes;
     Dense thickets of dead vines give beans.
     Even the weeds, that had defeated her
     Now yield rich heads of seed for hens.
     She walks about, coat-wrapped, scanning

     Ground for spuds rolled out by hen feet.
     Rarely, rewardingly, a ripe winter's squash
     Awaits discovery. Gone to seed last year,
     Viable chard and kale erupt now
     Even as it were March, and are welcomed.

     Little remains of her apple crop,
     If the early varieties are to be believed,
     Filling the cellar as they have, and
     Even the kitchen cabinet, with sealed jars.

     Rummaging round the orchard, she spies,
     Excusing themselves for tardiness, a
     Mighty wall of Granny Smiths. She might
     Avail herself of them, but her arms ache.
     In winter one wants rest. She turns
     Now houseward. Her hands hope
     Some things will wait for Spring.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:36 JST Moira

     in reply to

     Frontmatter and backmatter from What To About Trees, from which most of these poems came:

     What to Do About Trees/Risa Bear/Copyright © 2016 Risa Stephanie Bear

     Stony Run Press

     https://sites.google.com/site/stonyrunpress/

     ISBN 9781365480522

     b y t h e s a m e a u t h o r

     100 Poems

     Collected Poems

     Homecomings

     Iron Buddhas

     Starvation Ridge

     Toward a Buddhist/Permaculture Ethic
     for Smallholders and Others

     Viewing Jasper Mountain

     Some of these poems have appeared in the journals Bellowing Ark, Sand River Journal, New Zoo Poetry Review, Lynx: Poetry from Bath, Aerious, Disquieting Muses, Ariga: Visions, Writtenmind, Rockhurst Review, and the chapbook series Cedar Bark Poets. "Cityscape with Pink Rose" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

     Risa Stephanie Bear, a retired forester, printer, and librarian, farms one acre in the Willamette Valley, Oregon. She holds the M.A. in English and M.S. in Arts Management. She edited and compiled the pioneering e-text website, Renascence Editions.

     Bill repeated this.
   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:36 JST Moira

     in reply to

     Hongzhi likes untouched function.
     Action said to be action of Buddhas
     past and present is to see all

     in the ten directions without
     reaching for the pry bar.
     Without reaching for the pry bar,

     just appreciate. See, appreciate,
     settle in, sip tea. Fearlessly sipping tea
     is a tiger's roar. The squirrel

     out there watches a jay bury acorns.
     He relentlessly digs and eats them.
     The jay returns with more acorns.

     The squirrel returns and digs.
     I set down my cup, chuckling.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:37 JST Moira

     in reply to

     The last three summers, as she recalls them,
     Her heavy-clay bit of earth opened hexagonally;
     Into the depths she stared, seeing dry darkness
     So desiccated, she fancied worms and millipedes

     In despair had decamped, seeking other worlds.
     She poked at crevasses with her stick, finding bottom

     Well deeper than twelve inches. Not knowing
     How to garden in any but a rain forest, she
     Attacked books and websites for some scheme
     The budget could be stretched for: shade cloths,

     Raised beds, huge-log hugelkulturs, keyhole beds.
     All were possible, but her hands, old, worked
     In fits and starts; her money allocated elsewhere.
     Now she startles, looking at her night sky, so steeped

     In stars all summer, finding it black and close.
     Some drops, like bad boys' spitballs, carom off her

     Face. More, and now she's happily drenched in her
     Old nightgown, dancing slow circles. Autumn proves
     Real at last. This dance is what rain is for.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:38 JST Moira

     in reply to

     One should not have an orchard and
     Not care for it; so she tries,
     Even lurches from the depths of a chair

     She's found at some thrift, pre-softened; from
     Her house, warm or cool as she might wish,
     Out into too much sun or too much rain; from
     Under the kind roof of a porch she'd built,
     Leaving tool after tool there to gather
     Dust and webs, marks of a new will to

     Neglect. Beyond the weed-bent fence, an
     Orchard of sorts awaits her care, each
     Task having skipped two years at least.

     Hands grasp lopper and saw. She visits
     Apple, quince, pear, plum, cherry, clipping
     Vines, tall weeds, watersprouts, suckers;
     Even designates branches for her stove.

     As the forenoon warms, she strips off
     Now her hat, next jacket, shirt and gloves,

     Old skin offered to thorns, thistles,
     Rough bark. Really she'd meant to hire it done,
     Children of neighbors being short on cash.
     Habit, she could call it. Habit, and the way
     Apples come best that see right sun,
     Ripe enough to pay her for some pains.
     Do a thing yourself to see it through.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:38 JST Moira

     in reply to

     election

     She drags her rusty kneeler as way opens
     amid plants knee high, wetting her blue
     trousers in dew, as clouds decide

     to open or not, as the morning star
     recedes and hides itself, with a sliver
     of new moon, in day. Poppies

     have not yet awakened, nor daisies.
     She kneels and kneels again, eyeing
     potato vines, chard, kale, spinach, beets

     to see are they hiding pretenders beneath
     their skirts: thistle, geranium, nipplewort,
     even nascent blackberries, ash trees, an oak.

     Most of all, she seeks out bindweed, a long
     vine snaking from place to place, climbing,
     smothering fruitful things. She knows

     she's prejudiced, but her rationale is:
     bindweed's not for eating; raspberries are. Her
     hands elect who dies, who lives today.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:39 JST Moira

     in reply to

     These are not the tomatoes she wanted,
     Heirlooms such as Cherokee Purple, or
     Even Brandywines. But the clerk only
     Sells what's brought in, finds labels, wands
     Each four-inch pot through as she would

     A bag of chips or box of three penny nails.
     Really, the old woman muses, I should have
     Ended my day at the seedsman, but it's not

     Near here -- what, twenty miles? So I've
     Opted for the discount store again, to buy
     These things that hurt my soul: hybrids.

     There's this about them, they do produce
     Heavy fruits that please her folks and friends
     Easily enough, and in larger numbers. But

     To her there's something in them lacking.
     Old varieties taste of the eyes of young
     Men, of weeping, of laughter, of
     A child's anger at being teased, of
     The confusion of having one's braid pulled.
     On the hybrids she can't say as much.
     End to youth, beginning of sameness; a
     Safety that came to her too soon.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:40 JST Moira

     in reply to

     The cool-weather plants have bolted, and she
     Has had to gather the saddest cases.
     Even kale, not last year's but this year's, and

     Chard are defying the routine she has,
     Over decades, established as garden law.
     Often she walks through now, knife in hand,
     Lopping flowering stalks, vainly trying

     Whether some leaves can be kept soft
     Even as the heat chases her dream of spring
     Away again. Like last year. Like the year before.
     There's something to be said for radishes,
     Her bowl tells her, which is that it is not
     Empty. With arugula and rocket, leaves
     Ripped from already woody stems, snipped,

     Piled loosely, steamed lightly, stirred
     Lazily with duck egg on hot iron
     And tipped out onto a wrap, she'll
     Not starve today. Not that she would;
     Times were, she, younger, put things by.
     Shelves filled, bins groaned. A fear of

     Hunger to come, of poverty, keeps her
     Away from the cellar nowadays. She
     Values what's to be had from sun to sun.
     Even in real winters, there had always

     Been something to scrape for under snow.
     Over her now emptied bowl she, sated,
     Lingers, watching shadows move. It's
     That sun that worries her, drying
     Even early crops. Could even her
     Death come as rain, that would bless.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:41 JST Moira

     in reply to

     At her western window, she's stitching.
     The needle pricks her sometimes. She moves

     Her hand aside to not bleed on silk.
     Even as she works, her waxed thread in
     Rows appearing like commas, she sees a

     Western meadowlark pounce in tall grass,
     Ever growing, unmowed, outside. When
     She stops, peering over thick lenses
     To note the meadowlark has a grub, to her
     Ears come faint short songs of its mate.
     Reaching for her scissors, she snips a tail,
     Nudges it out of sight behind a stitch.

     When this row is done, she'll ask her mate
     If it will do. If not, she'll turn her mother's
     Needle and pull thread, loop by loop
     Down to the place her mind wandered.
     O meadowlark, I must look away!
     Wonder does not always aid one's work.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:42 JST Moira

     in reply to

     How she knows she is not useless yet:
     Old cornstalks must be shattered right
     Where they stood green, to feed worms

     She knows are waiting in darkness.
     Her hens wait too, for water, for feed,
     Especially for deadnettles, nipplewort,

     Kale and comfrey. Some hummingbirds
     Now arriving check the lilac for their
     Own nectar bottle that hung there
     While last spring, summer and fall
     Slipped past. There are wasp queens

     She finds sleeping in her woodpile;
     Her heart skips a beat as she sees
     Each one, for she fears them, yet

     Interests herself in their rest and
     Safety, for the good they do her garden.

     Now she mucks out her barn, for
     Of her things she values rich mulch, almost
     To distraction, most. But slowly;

     Under beams and eaves hang cobwebs,
     Sacs of eggs suspended in each, waiting
     End of winter, not to be disturbed.
     Lest she forget to serve all equitably,
     Every bucket of soiled barn water
     She carries to her trees to tip out:
     Something to stave off drought.

     Yes, she's earned the right, she thinks,
     Even in this so solitary place,
     To call herself an asset to her friends.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:42 JST Moira

     in reply to

     Five plants in, her back gives out, an
     Ill omen, given her age. This
     Very thing, her father had predicted;
     Even said: you will lose interest in

     Planting, in harvesting, in putting up.
     Lately she sees what he meant: politics
     And global change have consumed her;
     Now she sits much more, immobilized by
     Things she can only warn of, not repair.
     She feels some obligation to the young

     In all countries, even of peoples she will
     Never meet. Some tell her it's not

     Her business if some foreign child drowns.
     Even were that so, she would still feel it,
     Rummage in her purse, send something.

     Back in her garden, unfinished flats
     And pots of spring greens wonder where she is.
     Could she have died at last, that old thing,
     Killed by her curiosity, and left their roots

     Groping for water, circling round
     In dark commercial soil? The
     Very weeds miss her companionable warfare.
     Even the birds and squirrels, not chased
     She has let down; they lose their edge.

     Out in the mailbox, seed catalogs pile up.
     Under the house, leaks spring.
     This is how it is. Life moves on.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:43 JST Moira

     in reply to

     Spring springs upon her unawares;
     Perhaps she thought snow would drift
     Right up to her window, as it should
     In February, as in her memory
     No such month escaped some white.
     Going forth in a sleeveless shift
     She pockets up seeds for flats,
     Pulls out dank bins of soil,
     Reaches for small pots, sets hope
     In light. Such April ploys are
     Not to be counted on, she knows --
     Guessing random frosts
     Still may spring upon her unawares.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:44 JST Moira

     in reply to

     It begins with mare's tails: wisps of ice
     That spread, ghostly fingers from

     Beyond the southwestern horizon; her
     Ears feel the chill as she is planting bulbs.
     "Go inside," her chapped hands urge her,
     "Inside, your steaming kettle waits."
     "Not yet," she replies. In her mind's eye
     She watches thousands of daffodils bloom

     Where grass grew. She must plant hundreds
     If her dream will breathe. Altocumulus,
     Those clouds like schools of fish, arrive.
     Her hands are hurting her now; cold clay

     Milking moisture from gapped skin.
     As she bends, shovel in one hand,
     Round brown balls of life in the other,
     Each destined for a hole along her fence,
     She senses wind lifting skirts of

     The cottonwoods and willows. Raindrops
     Are arriving now, slanting through trees,
     Investing her sleeves and hair with wet.
     Leaving off at last, she, crutching on her
     Shovel, pivots toward tea and fire.

   • Embed this notice
     Moira (moira@c.im)'s status on Sunday, 20-Oct-2024 01:11:44 JST Moira

     in reply to

     What was hers, but is not hers just now,
     Having suffered a rising tide of voles
     And other rodents (she does not doubt), is
     The potting shed/solarium, a domain in

     Which she'd reigned, she thought, for decades.
     All of it, she'd built herself. Gathering
     Slats of rough hewn barn wood, windows,

     Heaps of antique bricks, a long green bench,
     Ever more pots and flats, bins and trowels,
     Royally she'd treated herself to her heaven,
     Seedlings doing as she'd have them do.

     But then: disaster. Peas and beans tucked
     Under skeins of soil vanished by ones and
     Threes -- whole flats of corn plowed up.

     Is there nothing to be done, she wonders,
     Short of slaughter by nefarious means?

     Not the first option. She casts about among
     Old tosswares in corners and on shelves.
     This rolled-up screening might do. Shears in

     Hand, she measures as one measures cloth,
     Ever minding the selvage, to create caps
     Rodents might decline to chew.
     Slipping these into place, adding to each

     Just one stone per corner, using
     Up the Buddha cairns she'd made
     Stacked here and there round the room.
     The precept honored, she waters all,

     Not neglecting to sprinkle stones.
     Outcomes must be as they must be.
     We find well that find we do not reign.