tired of blue skies
risking it all
for a little thunder and lightning
the questions made me weep
what answers can I give?
for I am
and I love
you of the soil and the dreams
of improbable possibilities
whose heart and hands are always open
without thought of tomorrow
or who will put bread on the table
or take the trash to the bin
or the years growing ever fewer
in our book of days
I am restless and forgiving and never to be
I am wanting and grasping and selfless to a fault
I wake each day
with the confidence of a fearful soul
whose ribs are held together
with baling wire and old twine
from the garden stakes out back
and just enough duct tape
to hold my heart in place
but that heart
it will beat forever
even when only dust
the beat will endure
even when only dust,
*** written in response to these questions posed by Marina Sofia for the dVerse poetics prompt
1) Who are you and whom do you love?
2) What else are you, that no one has seen before?
3) Describe a morning you woke without fear.
4) What lingers when all is said and done?
Our garden is beginning to bloom filled with columbine and bleeding hearts. The little volunteer dogwood and redbud trees are thriving – and we have our first blooms on one of the dogwoods this year – and one of the redbuds had one tiny bloom – it seemed so proud!
And as you can see, we will have a nice outbreak of frogapalooza soon – the pond is filled to the brim with tadpoles!
The heavy thud of black walnuts falling to the damp ground is a constant for a few weeks in the fall.
I didn’t know anything about this particular variety of tree nut until we moved to northwest Arkansas. Having spent my childhood in pecan country, Texas and south Arkansas, where even the standard walnut seemed a little foreign and exotic- the black walnut was completely new to me.
When I first saw the big green globes hanging in the trees, I actually speculated that they were a variety of bois d’arc or horse apples as we called them when we were kids. Didn’t take long to figure out that they were a nut under all that green hull and that they dye your fingers a dark walnut color pretty quickly when you pick a few up off the ground.
Of all the trees in the Ozarks, black walnut trees are not the most gorgeous tree in the woods. They can be straggly and rangy looking, the last to set leaves in the spring and the first to show yellow and fall in autumn. Their occupation is to create these hard to crack nuts and then rest for the balance of the year.
We had several on our property, and I must say, one of the nicest looking black walnuts was on the northwest side of the shack. It was not crowded by any other trees, far enough away from the huge white oaks in front and just enough room from the tree lined fence on the north part of the dog yard.
Each season, for however long it chose, it was a full and quite nice shade tree, airy and lacey, given dappled light to the yard swing and perennial lily bed. Bob would sit on the step at that end of the porch, while I sat in the swing and listened to him play his guitar, or we would play ball with the dogs in the shade of that walnut tree.
A cottage industry springs up in the fall as the nuts ripen. A local company will buy the nuts from anyone who shows up with a bag or truck load. So many an afternoon along the narrow Ozarks roads, you will see folks with sacks or buckets retrieving the fallen nuts.
In autumn, when the harvest began, a young family would drive slowly up our little lane, the dad driving and the mom and her two youngsters would pick up the fallen walnuts. Tossing them into the trunk or one year in the back of the station wagon, they would pick the road clean. Each year when they came by, they would ask if they could gather the walnuts from our tree. Of course, that was always fine and we welcomed them each season.
I always hoped it would help them – this was a hard way to earn money. When you took the walnuts to sell, they would place them in a spinning hopper to release the nut from the hull. Once that was done, the nuts were weighed and you were paid $11.00 for one hundred pounds! That took a whole lot of nuts in the back of a station wagon to bring home $11.00.
With each gust of wind, I hear the heavy thuds – its black walnut time in the Ozarks.
**** Dear Readers, I know it has been too long between stories of the shack. I am in the process of editing the previous stories and The Last Really Good Shack will soon have its own blog. I hope you will continue to read and enjoy these little snippets of our life in the Ozarks.
The Kitchen Song
She loves him sweet and tender
She loves him with pies and cake
She loves him with buttery little biscuits
The kind she likes to bake.
She loves him good and hearty
She loves him with beef stew
She loves him with ribs and goulash
And rich bowls of thick burgoo.
She loves him hot and spicy
She loves him with red cayenne
She loves him with jalapeno peppers
And secret recipes from the Yucatan.
She loves him dark and steamy
She loves him with coffee and cream
She loves him with Earl Grey and Oolong
And toddies spiked with Jim Beam.
She loves him in so many ways
She loves him the best she can
She loves him sweet and good and hot,
Her sweet talkin’ everlovin’ man.
— This is an old poem written for Bob as a Valentine one year. Still one of my silliest and one of my favorites. I hope you won’t mind if I re-post it again today.
Sending you hearts and flowers and a day filled with love! K
A whirling galaxy of starlings
At sunset on Christmas Eve.
Star – lings
(a bright name for such a dark and dusky bird)
A murmuration of stars
Sweeping the darkening night,
Making a moving path
For the Milky Way.
— The Course of Our Seasons AuthorHouse Publishing 2011
Check this video out — amazing starlings murmuration (full HD) -www.keepturningleft.co.uk http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eakKfY5aHmY&feature=share via
The Dark Night
Fear invades, pervades, masquerades in calm seas,
Tossed into sets of broken dreams, unseamed hems
Of garments rent in grief. No sweet hand of relief
To a burning brow, to wipe unshed tears
Across the bruised cheek. Dissonant hymns
Of grace rejected, bounce from cellar to steeple.
Flags sway in changing breeze to catch the sharper
Wind, not seen but felt on skin whose
Pallor has moved from gray to gray, undone by
The aspect of different circumstance and need.
What has truly changed, nothing. Nothing but
Possibilities and options, the awareness
Of the nearness and the dark night.
Running With Scissors
Running with scissors is her M O, not caring
the tearing that her soul brings to the fore.
Silver flashing blades of grass beneath her feet,
grasping the consequences of all her actions.
Moving through Time and Dreams,
her mother’s voice is calling,
calling, calling to the future of what was
and will not be again. The remembrance
of remorse and tears unshed, of grief,
freely given and taken, when all that is left
is love, forgiveness, and unanswered prayer.
— Kathleen G. Everett © 2012