Ideas of Order

Trying to clear the bed to plant the potted blueberries, all root-bound budding craving space, the unfamiliar sunshine made me slothy and sleepy. I pulled weeds and walked across the yard to the bin and back again, wandering away to study shoots of hollyhock. There was no hurry. Soft in the air, the first time since September, squinting into the sun.

plum_branchThe plum blossoms shine, when a week before they mingled with snow. The plum tree grows out on the common verge, tame once, now gone feral. In August, I picked the hard red plums, the ones I could reach from the ground, and mulched them with vinegar to brew a shrub syrup from the fruit.

“–Say it, no ideas but in things—”

Is every woman a flower? Each man a city?

No, I think, though I do love the plums* and the blushing tree, I do not concur. Unlike the poet Williams, I suppose each woman rather the river falls above the city, uncompromising, “a recoil of spray and rainbow mists” her Ideas in the sensing of things.

*This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

—William Carlos Williams,



Harvest Moon

The moon is waxing to full next week, the harvest moon, rising gold to mark the fruit of a year’s labors, a tired garden. The harvest moon follows the autumnal equinox, at least in the northern hemisphere, when the length of darkness outstrips the light, when the crops are stored in cellar and silo, and the gourds and pumpkins are the last shine in the field.

Last night was a celebration and reunion, so I walked the yard gathering a platter to share: Grape leaves and grapes, new winter kale, fingerlings, sweet savory, nasturtium. These framed the Spanish meats, a French cheese, and fresh mozzarella from our local dairy. Nasturtiums are sassy. They taste of pepper.


A new season is upon the threshold, still around the corner,  but casting a long shadow, breathing a dew soon to harden to frost.