Friday Moment

{this moment} – A Friday ritual. Photos – no words – capturing moments from the week. Simple, special, extraordinary moments. Moments you want to pause, savour and remember. “This Moment” is a ritual found on  SouleMama’s blog then grabbed by the Wee Man which was lifted from Almost there by Sarah-Jane and snagged from Alejandro.

Gardening

Without encountering manure and decay, we wouldn’t be able to fully appreciate a beautiful garden. We could plant seeds without preparing the soil. We could randomly drop them onto the ground without creating tiny holes and covering them up. We could forget to water them and pray for rain. We could wish that the sun wouldn’t bake them before they take root.

We could hope the seedlings that do sprout will survive without fertilizer. We could, because of convenience, make a pathway through them and believe that, despite our trampling, they will live. We could think that we will enjoy a great harvest if we just let them be. We could let our rakes, shovels and spades collect rust in the shed because gardens don’t really need muscle. We could let the weeds grow so tall and become so invasive that they begin to choke our plants.

Or we could get on our knees. We could get dirty. We could till the ground. We could carefully place them one by one in furrows and pat the soil on top of them. We could drag the watering can over again and again–no matter how cumbersome–and soak them.

We could plant them in a location where they will get just the right amount of sun. We could create a compost heap, be patient, try to ignore the smell and shovel black gold over them so they could thrive. We could go out of our way to take the longer path and walk around them. 

 

We could hope for a brilliant harvest but not expect perfection without any damage from pests or fungus. We could put our backs into it and use the tools we have to assist our baby shoots. We could repeatedly grab, pull and tug at those invasive weeds that threaten to overwhelm our plants. We could do all of these things if our garden is meaningful to us.

If we have even a speck of faith that the sun will come up each day, that falling waters quench thirst, that dirt–while making us feel unclean–can be washed off, our gardens will appear beautiful to us. We will see the loveliness and color as others see it.

 

And when we are too tired to plant, nurture, dig, pull, water, we will remember that all gardeners have periods when they get stuck on their knees in the mud or fall face down.  We could lay there for a while. Get a little strength back. Then we could try to stand or we could reach out for strong hands to pull us up.

We could begin to plant again–until we figure it out how it all works and how many seasons it takes to get it right. Eventually, we will harvest blossoms of success.


glittering soot on her eyelashes

I’m excited to introduce a blogger friend whose poetry I have admired for some time.  She agreed to guest post and share an original poem from her collection.  She is an talented artist who weaves beautiful imagery and creativity into her poetry.  She writes about relationships, nature,  love, lost loves, and the bottom line?  She moves me!  Check out her site at glittering soot on her eyelashes and show her some love!

 

 

 

 

 

 

i flow in gold rivulets
alike a slowly setting sun,
skin tingling, lost in blistering air
of the never tomorrows and never agains.
we gulp it down,
unwillingly,
laughing,
saline waters still trapped in alveoli
aftertaste of sea spray on the lips
and
i remember all that you were
and all that you weren’t.

 

 © glittering soot on her eyelashes

 

we never really lose lost loves.
the moral of the story? cut the thread you torture yourself with every once and again or sleep soundly knowing you managed to love again.


Deluge

Lately, I haven’t written much here. Not because words have eluded me but because life has been a deluge.  I have been umbrella-less, soaked, face upturned, eyes closed, experiencing a light drizzle matting down my hair, and, other moments, being subjected to stinging, pelting torrents.  In between the tumultuous extremes, I have felt warmth breaking through the lumpy, gray clouds.  The sensation of sunlight on my eyelids that have caused them to fly open.  When I have looked up through dampened lashes, I have glimpsed rainbows.  Day after day after day.  Not one or two or three, more like five or six.  Extravagant jewels in the skies.  At times, only a fragment of multi-colored hues, but rainbows just the same.  I have savored them, letting my gaze remain fixed on their transparent beauty.  My emotions have soared amidst the slowly moving skyscape, flitting here and there, bathed in flecks of violet and indigo.  A sense of hope has permeated my spirit.  There is no shaking it off, no angry skies that can blanket it, no lightening zig zags that can electrocute it.  Anticipation remains, expectant, receptive to whatever it is that is now concealed by a watery, dribbling mist.

Summer

Summer exhales long and slow.  Breath perfumed with jasmine and honeysuckle breezes over me.  She orchestrates the jaunting chorus of ice-cream trucks and children’s laughter mingled with the ocean’s sighs.  She grabs my hand and slows my pace to a languid stroll.  I inhale the fragrance of pine needles blanketing concrete.  The loud buzzing of Cicada is welcome white noise.  Summer works deftly overhead mixing humidity and sunshine with generous heaps of azure.  Sprinkling in some electric zigzags and swarthy scowls.  The forecast:  smiling sun with a chance of growling gray. 

© Pamela A. Rossow

Spring

  

 Spring

running through fields of
wild flowers fragrant
air plays tag I’m it

perfumed breath-
less near my nape
I have not neglected

the bronze sun on my
face the verdant blanket
underfoot to collapse upon

the secrets you have kept
a first kiss blossoming on a
young girl’s lips stained

with romance she will not
forget that embrace
under your azure skies

© Pamela A. Rossow