Friday, December 25, 2009

The Golden Book of Possibilities Chapter One

Merry Christmas, first of all, and a Happy Glorious Rich and Juicy New Year!

I have this problem. Sometimes when I read, I read things cockeyed. It's not quite dexlysia, because it's not backwards, it's just... different. For example, "Sycuan Bingo Palace" easily becomes "Szechuan Bingo Police", and leads one to wonder, what will they do? "M'am, You didn't finish your Kung Pao Chicken. I'm afraid we'll going to have to fine you 30 chips."

So I find this note that I have written reminding me of something or other, and it says "The Golden Book of Possibilities". And I think, wow ! that's cool... It's like the Little Golden Book series we had as kids, filled with POSSIBILITIES! No wait, it's really the "Garden Book of Perennials", but man I am running with it.

So this then, is Chapter One of "The Little Golden Book of Possibilities."

The hoar frost sits crunchy and heavily on the grass crispy and white as a fine dusting of snow, but not. It is crystalline, it is magic, it's a tweener thing, hoar frost, not snow, not ice, not water, not quite solid. And it makes the most mundane things glorious. A piece of garden netting becomes lace left behind by the garden faes hurried dawn flight.

The guinea hens patrol the backyard, in an amoeba movement ,three for all, and all for three.

I got some pictures back of my puppy Grrrrl. Here is one particularly lovely one. I think she is a stunningly beautiful grrrrl.

Off to Seattle for Christmas dinner!

Chapter Two will be forthcoming.


Sunday, December 13, 2009

Morning Jewels, Dangerous Dreaming

This past week has been a difficult one for plants, animals and people. Each morning, I would heat up a 2 gallon pot of water on my trusty propane stove, and defreeze all the animals' water buckets. This was repeated each evening. For a week, we never got above freezing at our daytime highs. For the Yards up top, for Teeghkii & Chance, and the Goat Royal Court, I used my wee wagon. I found a 5 gallon bucket I saved from earlier which has a rubber seal inside the lid, so it will seal, and stay sealed even if I accidentally tip the wagon over. Which I did every time, for some reason. Clumsy I guess :~)

It was a dry cold, with no moisture. I am hoping I will not lose too many plants. Plants don't much care to get frozen solid with dry roots. So we scrambled this past week.

Yesterday, the rains came. It was freezing rain, a constant drizzley very "wet" rain which soaked every thirsty thing. This morning when I went outside to hie me off to work, leaving a half an hour early just in case -which didn't help much- the sun poured golden over the landscape filtering through the diamond-festooned trees in beams of syrupy light. Each leaf, each branch, the seed heads I leave for the birds, all were bedazzled by frozen pieces of moonlight captured for the dawn.

The ground was slick with an invisable layer of treachery. I scraped and scraped to chip the ice off the windshield, resisting the urge to dump a pot of hot water all over the windshield. I know where that will lead, and it's not pretty. Started the truck up and reached the end of driveway. I got out and took a couple of steps into the street, and watched a truck pass on by with no troubles. My halting steps were quite like skiing with no skis, so I pulled the chains out and attached them to my back tires. Pulling out of the driveway, I noticed my wee truck skittering like a spooky colt. Fishtailing and bucking, I slowly made my way in first gear down the middle of the street praying no-one would be coming up the hill, or pull out from a driveway.

As I crept down my quite steep hill, I noticed the sunlight stroking the frozen leaves with tender ministrations. The beams prismed through each diamond drop casting tiny rainbows hither and yon. As I passed beneath the trees as they lean across the road, they dropped a mist of hail, of frozen solid raindrops losing their grip on their perches pummeling passers-beneath. The sunlight bathed the larger trees with silver light, illuminating each tiny drop as they fell.

I had to pay close attention to my squirrely truck as she wiggled and giggled down the hill, but the sight of all those crystalline raindrops clinging to their leafy boughs was glorious! It was beautiful. It was treacherous. It was dangerous dreaming filled with morning jewels.


Saturday, December 5, 2009

Love Song to a Small Town

Love Song to a Small Town


Snow alights treacherously down upon the railings of the deck overlooking the pond disguised as fat innocent puffy soft flakes
where the ducks sleep restlessly
one eye open for the black bear in the orchard
one eye open for the coyotes trash talking behind the dog yards.
Our wolfdogs trash talk them right back
the hillside rings with the singing of the Brethren
Wolf & Coyote.

The guinea hens spook at every shadow which passes overhead, hawk or sparrow, it is all the same to them, all is danger, all is sorrow
They have short memories, however, and as soon as the shadow is gone, they go back to their chuckling and hunting.

I wonder if the bugs they hunt do the same shrieking and hiding as they spy the dangerous shadows of the guineas.

I wanted solitude, I wanted to touch the wild within me
the wild which was being smothered in the smog of Southern California,
crushed beneath the developers’ mitigating circumstances
as they bulldoze yet another riparian area unto insignificance.
I hungered for the solitude and quiet
and that, I got, in spades.
Now widowed, I have all the solitude I can stand.

This past week, I missed a bill, and have been disconnected
from the internet.
Like Joni sings, you don’t know what you’ve lost ‘till it’s gone
and like an ache, like a shadow limb severed unbeknownst to the brain which thinks it still controls it,
I miss the connection.
I miss the daily chat and the silly games.
I miss hearing the voice of the man I am seeing before I sleep.

And I wonder about that
as I watch the crackling of the ice which covers the pond
like traceries and veins of the Mother
a milky slip of crenalated silk overlaying the deep violet blue of the pond
with the stumps arising from the depths like loons in the mist
No matter how many times I pass them knowing what they are, I still give them a second glance to make sure they have not shape-shifted into the Earth Birds that I know they really are.
Grounded frozen into the pond, dreaming of flight.

Love is for the young they say, and if that is so,
I am still so very young,
Because I love
I love
I love
Strong and different this time ‘round, more direct
patient yet urgent
patient yet passionate
patient yet wild like the howls of the wolves.

Time does that to a person.
I always thought I would disappear into a puff of blue smoke
when I hit 30.
I did not.
Instead, I moved to Oregon and started a new life
where I watch the snow drift silent down upon this land
where I love
where I live
where I have found the solitude I wanted
and the love that I needed
and the life I never knew I could have.