Friday, May 30, 2014



There is a certain slow restlessness in the south

It’s a subtle thing.
Stirring in the belly and chest
as if You were rich dirt inside
and, in the dark,
something is starting to take root.

Little tiny white roots
crawling and pushing their way
Your stomach
and into Your chest
and up into Your throat
and down
through Your guts
and into Your thighs.

It comes
when the weather starts,
getting warm, and
everything begins,
waking up around You. 

You stretch and
You breathe deeply and
You move always.

It is not
or tight
or electric
or constricting
like other sensations. 

It is slow
and serpentine.

Taking root and working outwards.

Tuesday, May 27, 2014


The blueberries won’t give fruit this year--
they are young, and just transplanted.

I was surprised when the hellebores bloomed.
I didn’t recognize their leaves.

How can I measure myself
in the years of a garden?

Dirt-poor, red-clay, these are the things
I am made of.

I amend, rotate, rip-up, let go,
and separate, yet

I wonder when that yield will
be mine.