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Thursday, June 16, 2011


My poem was inspired by the most beautifully written words of my dear friend Darla. She has etched her initials into our earth and hearts and continues to share her abundance with each of us. Serendipitously, the moon we all share was full last night and smiled on each of us.

“Ask yourself whether the dream of heaven and greatness should be waiting for us in our graves - or whether it should be ours here and now and on this earth.”
Ayn Rand

I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived. Willa Cather

Not My First Rodeo

They called on Jan to harvest.
They called on me to help.
We called upon the skies to
give rain to our humus.
My windshield wipers push
the water from my view and
I turned down the dirt driveway,
splashing through puddles
towards the red farmhouse,
my body burning for something.

We sit on the porch, he and I.
He found bees producing honey
in need of a keeper.
He found a revolution
that he could be a part of.
I found an earth worth knowing.
I found a place I can call home.
We watch the rain fall in sheets,
and breath in the earth as
she releases her warm musk,
and we know her tears feed
the pregnant fields.
By 8 pm the skies
turn universally clear.

We quickly change into
our dirty farm clothes;
screen door slamming
on the way out.
Check list in hand,
we start harvesting,
racing against
the last of day.

In field 7, we
pull 15 lbs of golden beets
from the moist ground--
each tuber beautiful,
each destiny distinct.
A wicker basket on my hip,
my pants wet
from the rain soaked greens,
caressing my ankles. I
feel planted and ripe.

The light of sunset is coming
closer and closer
to departing for the night;
my basket is overflowing,
on to field 1.

My fingers grasp the top
of a head of green cabbage,
water droplets falling down
my rough palm.
The round body, full and firm,
and so much more than the seed
I remember
planting just months before.
I cradle it in my hands.

I look up at the moonlit sky,
memorizing the last strands of
orange and pink
barely visible above the tree-line.
I receive an overwhelming sensation
that everything is one.
Every step I’ve taken,
every breath I’ve exhaled,
each seed I've planted,
each birth I've witnessed
made peace in my state of bliss.

The falling dark ends our harvest and
we collapse into our porch chairs,
and raise our glasses in success,
in elation of truth and abundance.
Our eyes meet.
No toast uttered.

The stars start to peer out
from behind the departing storm clouds.
La luna is keeping us company;
our conversation lingers and slowly
begins to fade into the physical night.

His strong arms and baby-
soft skin under my fingers.
Our eyes, our bodies,
our spirits
connecting in every way
that our souls could dream.
The cool air caressing our skin
with the moon as our witness
leaving my heart as
full as la luna.

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