Lost

Oh, be still my racing mind. Lately it's been so hard to slow it, shush it and keep it in the present. Especially this morning -- I've been gearing up for it for a weeks now -- the first day of Spring. I'm already thinking about all I want to do, do, do: finish cleaning up the dregs of winter on the balcony, make a quick to the garden centre for seedling mix and seeds, add fresh vermicompost to the soil, prepare containers for seedlings, sow seeds, re-line the hanging baskets with fresh coconut fibre, take photos of emerging bulbs....The list grows fast like a bad weed.

But if I don't make time and effort to be still, I will be lost. I know this. I've known this for a while.

This poem came to me in a weekly email yesterday -- just what I needed. First "gardening" task of the day: plant this in my heart.

Lost

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

- David Wagoner

From the book "Traveling Light: Collected and New Poems"
published by the University of Illinois Press in 1999.

Snow-dusted grasses

Dust of Snow

By ROBERT FROST (source)

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

What is purple?

Color
by Christina Rossetti

What is pink? a rose is pink
By a fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
Just an orange!

(Source)

Viola cornuta Sorbet (TM) Antique Shades

What is purple? why, a viola,
Not just a viola,
But my favourite viola!

I'd love to see images of your favourite pansies and violas (or other cool season flowers). Please leave a link to your blog or Flickr page in the comments.

Dahlias in October

A red dahlia glowing brightly, a couple of blocks beyond my balcony:

Poppies in October
by Sylvia Plath

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly——

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

Source: Poetry Foundation

Summer poetry

Some people eat ice cream or drink iced tea, some go swimming, and others nap on a blanket under a shady tree -- and I enjoy these pleasures, too -- but lately, I've been seeking relief from the heat (and to be honest, other stresses) by reading poetry.

Here is a selective sample of poems I discovered through my favourite blogs:

The Sun by Mary Oliver (posted by jen lemen)

The Summer Day by Mary Oliver (posted by Christine of Abbey of the Arts)

Daily by Naomi Shahib Nye (posted by Christine of Abbey of the Arts)

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Addendum: I feel the need to tie this post to gardening. OK, here is the connection. Until today, for the past week it's been too hot to garden on my south-facing balcony with its glass railing and heat-amplifying deck. Even some of my nasturtiums got sun-burned. So, I've been taking refuge in the coolest room in my apartment, the office, and spending a lot of time online reading blogs. Well, one blog leads to another and it really isn't much of a leap to go from gardening to poetry. It's really a natural pairing.