Swallow the dew (poetry)

small farm, farming, tomatoes, play, love, redemption, poetry

Each dawn,
I breath in,
enough.
Out,
enough.

The soil loosens in my hands.

Farming has shaped us both,
this land, and I.
It has shaped us into one word, on repeat.

Enough.
Enough.
Enough.

I load the tomatoes into the crates.
I haul in grace,
pound, upon pound, upon pound.

This deal we’ve made,
it is no small deal.
I can not wash the dirt from under my nail no matter how hard I try.

No.
It is no small deal.

Tender, tended. Provider, provided. I am not sure where I begin, where the Earth ends?

My skin is stained yellow.
I smell like tomato.
I feel that someday I will be
no more than
dirt.

summer of dirty feet

You touch the one sticking out of the sheet,
searching
for a little relief, the cool of morning.
I feel you, feeling me
finding my dirty foot
turning you on,
the work these feet have done this year.

Of course, all things want to grow.
But we are prone to stagnate,
wilt,
even falter,
to save ourselves from the labouring,
to save ourselves from this contraction, and the next, and the next.
Afraid to ride these waves, unrelenting, never-ending.
We think it is easier.

But, here I stand, so dirty, worked hard,
stronger, better,
grown.

And even though I try to wash my feet before bed,
letting the mud of the tended soil
wash
away,
to come to bed clean,
to keep the night sacred,
to touch the holy space that is you and I, together,
with feet as clean as a Daughter of God,

most nights,
this year,
I forget.

But this summer of dirty feet,
and your touch, simple, gentle,
fully upon them,
it is all just about growing, right?

We can’t do anything else and survive.
And besides, this is all I have ever known how to do.

I’ve always invited the mud..

for the year of the horse (a poem)

chinese new year, oal oak tree, setting intentions, new moon, poetryOn This Chinese New Year’s Eve

I cut my hair.

I wanted to enter
the wooden horse of this new year
re-framed, re-styled, ready for anything.

Because this year, I want, fiercely, many things.

Like your legs intertwined with mine
in the motion of waves
all the time
as if there is no time.

And the kind of success
measured in limitlessness.

I will hang the red banner.
Spill the blood of so many oranges
or lap the juices with my tongue, at least,
let it dribble down my chin in fervent prayer.

Because this year, I want to enter like a Trojan horse.

For better or worse,
things must happen
and we must make them.

on winter solstice

b&woak4First one toe, then another.

The day begins.

 

A sun to worship, the ancients rejoice.

I hear it, subtle, but there.

A louder song, a promise born, faintly,

in the wind.

 

And why?

 

First one breath, then another.

Not the first day of,

but midway through.

Midway to

the fresh and green and day you’ve been waiting for.

 

Sometimes me, sometimes you.

Spiralling in can take an eternity, and in the dark, what to hold onto,

this?

 

Yes.

This–

if we are just a microcosm of this macro cosmos,

then know,

and know well,

that there will always be light–always–

(and dark)

again.

 

And again.

And again.

And again.

Together, we will make magic.

My oldest son has recently become interested in reading his mama’s words.  It is a strange experience for me because I know that when the farmer reads them or other adults read them, they have a wide base of context to bring with them to the reading.  At eleven, his awareness has definitely broadened, but just how much is always a surprise to me.

So, at the end of the night when I work on this project, he often comes over and gives me his feedback on the photo editing, which I generally take since he is already such a gifted visual artist.  He has read all of them and has his favorites.  It has been a lot of fun.

A few nights back, I had gotten my photo up and had written this title, “Meet me under the tree,” and this first line, “We will make magic, together.”  I had to walk away from the computer for some reason or another and when I came back, he had finished the poem.

I think it was a bit inspired by his recent readings of my own work, but it is still pretty awesome.  Especially for a boy who thinks he doesn’t write well.  He does, he really does.  He just can’t yet get the grand scope of his stories down as well as he sees them in his head and so he feels this limitation and hasn’t gotten to the point of realizing he just needs to either give those epics a lot of hard work or try to write something shorter.  The short hasn’t interested him yet.  Poetry hasn’t interested him yet.  And so this was very exciting.

I couldn’t really leave it on my other page and my own post morphed into this.

But he had really wanted me to use it and so I told him I would post it here.  He decided to change the photo and edited one of his favorites from our files–one of his father’s–to go with the poem.  The old title is gone too, but I think his new choice is perfect.  It is the best kind of magic making, doing these kinds of things, together.

Together

by Olorin Jaillet

we will make magic, together.

we will make bliss.

we will make unity,  together.

together, we will make magic.

together, we will make peace, we will make happiness.

we will, together.