Twilight Garden

Todd and I spent the weekend in Maine at my mum's house, helping out with her gardens and eating too much homemade mac & cheese.  We miss having our own garden these days, so we live vicariously by digging and mucking about in our parents' gardens.

After we finished up yesterday, the very last bit of light in the evening was so lovely that I had to take a few photos.  
Below is part of the shade garden we planted for Mum two summers ago when my grandmother passed away.  We wanted to make sure we could save some of Grammy's gardens, so we transplanted several of her perennials, including many hostas, in a shady corner of my mother's yard beside the glossy wild ginger that she already had growing there.  We tucked in some variegated lamium and a few ferns that we stole from forgotten corners of Mum's yard.  This year, the garden is starting to fill in nicely.

Mum has clouds of blue columbine in one of her gardens.  We hung this greenish, creamy white surfinia petunia next to them to keep them company.
Whenever I garden at my mother's house, all my childhood summers spent there come rushing back.  Her peonies are about to open, and I recall braving the ants just to crush my face into their lush scent.  On the roadsides near her house the daisies, lupine, and buttercups are in full flower now.  My sister and I used to pick armfuls of wildflowers in the field behind our yard to fill every vase, milk bottle, and jam jar we could find.  This weekend I was content with just digging and weeding and mulching, but I think I will need to raid the vacant lot next to my own building tomorrow to bring back a handful or two of wild early-summer beauties.

Bittersweet Heartache

I'm up late tonight working on a manuscript, listening off and on to early Bob Dylan.  If you ever need a good cry in the middle of the night, listen to "Girl from the North Country."  I'm writing a tough scene in my story, and, yes, getting pretty misty.  Not weepy, just misty.  Trust me, that's enough.  I need to see to type.  This moment grabs my heart and gives it a good squeeze every time:

I'm a wonderin' if she remembers me at all.

Many times I've often prayed,

In the darkness of my night, 

In the brightness of my day. 

I read a great blog post the other day--can't remember where at the moment--about favorite sad songs, songs of heartbreak, songs to nurse a broken heart or maybe even rub salt in the wound.  This one would have to be on my list.  What songs would you include?  I'd love to hear.  

New Poem

Photo by House of Sims

This poem is called "Picture This," which is also the title of a new collection that I've just finished writing.  

Picture This

You live in a foreign country,

except to you

it isn't foreign

because it's where

you were born

in this, a different life--

imagine--

pears grow there

on your very 

own tree,

or maybe--get wild--

they're figs,

and you can use

the word pluck

for the first time

in your whole life,

at least this life,

but in that one

you pluck practically

every day:

harp strings, heart 

strings, whole mornings,

and the figs, of course--

but only what you need.

You never horde.

Imagine--

each fig is the first,

the last--

pollinated by the tiny moth

that has climbed inside

the fruit's tiny mouth,

laid her eggs

and waited 

for her prince to pluck

her out.

Imagine--

inside your mouth

for one moment

you hold seed

and flower

and egg,

all that you 

could ever want,

the world--

its birth,

its death 

inside

your mouth.