Summer House: Thicket

thicket

Thicket

What entangled treasures wait
inside the thicket?

A winter wren’s nest
in moss-woven globe,
five tiny eggs,
cream with red spots?

Tree frog
climbing lichen
on the bark of a fir
with padded feet
and golden toes?

From the fallen limb
in thick humus
a huckleberry bush
stretches to light.

What red jewels,
sweet, tart,
full to burst
with dew–

–this grows
from rubble,
storm ripped,
from the rotting
mass, cedars
once towered
past the moon.

And now,
in the tangled thicket,
we search for
treasures spun
from ruin.

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Summer House: A Gardener’s First Lesson

lavender

A Gardener’s First Lesson

Out by where the lavender grows
my grandfather planted rows
and rows of carrots,
parsnips, radishes
and beans.

Out by where the lavender grows
I asked him how he chose
which seed to bury.
Was it simple as
it seemed?

Out by where the lavender grows
he said, “Listen. Your finger knows.”
He set a hard round
nugget in my palm,
brown and green.

Out by where the lavender grows
I felt a spark through my toes.
Soil can sing. Listen.
A seed bursts with light,
a sheen.

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