Solace

The heaviest clouds are memories now,
and each thorn gives up its rain.
I dreamt I saw your shadow,
a flicker at the edge of the meadow.
Every step took me hours and hours,
and when I reached you you had gone.
In the trampled grass where the doe makes her bed,
a damp and budding armful: peony, lavender,
strawberry, thistle.
These are the flowers of my heart,
and in new sun they will bloom.







painting by Cassandra Barney

Presence

I could be blind on this gold day,
not know the honest sun
save for its tender warmth.

I could be deaf as a desert stone,
not know the drowsing murmurs
of one lamb to another.

I could be mute and never tell
another soul the size and shape
of all these breathing beauties.

But I couldn't be here,in this sweet meadow,
and not know your love
by its scent. There is no life
without this bounty, there is
no day without fruit.





painting by Cassandra Barney

The Language of Flowers: Lily of the Valley

sweetness, humility, healing, spring, a return to happiness

I sleep late. The lawnmowers
do not wake me, nor the landlord's
angry wife. The light
finds my eyes gently,
as the rain begins. The house
is empty. The bright street,
deserted. The comforter
has been rejected, a cool white dog
at the foot of the bed.

All the clocks are wrong or gone,
I guess he took his with him. I force open
a window. It is time to start the day.





painting by Cassandra Barney
another season of floriography begins.

Interlude: Happy Birthday, Cassandra Barney

Today is the anniversary of the birth of one miss Cassandra Barney, my inspiration, collaborator and friend. Take a minute today, if you will, to cruise over to her blog and send her birthday wishes, or just think glittery thoughts in her general direction. She works hard, plays hard, dreams hard, and loves hard, and I only hope today is all that it can be for her, that she is inundated with affection and children's drawings and good wishes.



Thistle
Hard work, love that endures hardship, defiance, protection

I never saw my mama’s feet sleeping.
Mornings they trod a triangular path:
garden, fire, table.
Mid-day she walked in circles sewing,
mending our dresses as we read our lessons.
As the sun set she strode stripes through the fields,
barefoot among the thistles to bring the cows in.
When the stars pricked holes
in the black paper above, her heels creaked
a half-moon of floorboards around the big bed.
I dreamt every night of fragrant weeds and grasses,
and knew that when I woke
the footsteps below would always be hers.

Offerings: Poppy

Darkness and light, imagination, consolation, oblivion

It was dark when I woke
this morning, and I lay for a time
at the foot of the bed, the fingers
of one hand on my best dress,
laid out too. Now in the garden
beyond the window giant poppies stir,
cold red fingers on their own
black dresses.

The dew creeps in. Down the road
the others are waking, startled
from epic dreams. Their gardens
are sweetly scented, their eyes bright.
They offer innocence, beauty,
awareness.
We do not know where we are going.
I suck the light in
like a new moon
and rise to greet the yellow day.



painting by Cassandra Barney

For anyone who will be in the Portland, Oregon area next weekend: Ernst & Ernst Collectors Gallery in Cannon Beach is hosting a three-day show of Cassandra Barney's new paintings, several of which are accompanied by my new poetry. Cass and I will be there--stop in, see the Pacific Ocean, say hi. We'd love to see you.

For more details click here.

The Language of Flowers: A Collaboration in Process

Hellebore
Calumny, scandal, treatment for madness and paralysis, highly poisonous

I will love you like loving you
Will cure me. I have seen
The others cast you into fires,
Hissing your name as your legs curled
And glowed; I have heard
What you did to Alexander, who slept
Like any other man, wrapped in your arms,
Great no more.

I have seen your children ground into dust,
Tipped into bottles, pulled in droplets to clapping mouths;
I have seen eyes go black with the force of you.
And when I am yours, and yours alone,
They say your face will open, like a shield of angels’ wings
To bear me hence.



painting by Cassandra Barney

Thistle

Hard work, love that endures hardship, defiance, protection

I never saw my mama’s feet sleeping.
Mornings they trod a triangular path:
garden, fire, table.
Mid-day she walked in circles sewing,
mending our dresses as we read our lessons.
As the sun set she strode through the fields,
barefoot among the thistles to bring the cows in.
When the stars made pinpricks
in the black ocean above, her heels creaked
a half-moon of floorboards around our big bed.
I dreamt every night of fragrant weeds and grasses,
and knew that when I woke
the footsteps below would always be hers.


Thistle by Cassandra Barney

Plums

Independence, Privation, Treatment for Weak Hearts

He looked her blue in the eyes, searching,
and told her he loved her. She murmured
indistinctly and thought not of the flush
in his cheeks or his wheat-colored eyelashes,
but of ripe plums.

In the biting January wind, in the heartless
blinding sun off the harbor waters,
her mind retreated to the surrendering depth
just beyond the taut, tangy skin of the plum.

As his hot hand reached for hers
she longed for the shady release
of cool juice on her lips,
black fruit in her hand.

Snowdrop (A Scent of Things to Come)

Hope, Consolation, First Sign of Spring

The dark days seem to go on forever.
She prowls the cold streets on her lunch hour,
each empty storefront a new shade of yellowing gray.
Everything must go; all first-quality merchandise;
the real estate agency for rent.
Graffiti has faded to shades of rusty red.

On the corner she steps out in front
of a cop car, is splashed back onto the curb.
By her wet ankles, clean surprise:
a snowdrop.

Behind her the resin angels
of Saint Anthony's gift shop
look to the sky,
concealing half-smiles.