Watched a shooting star over I-91 last night. Said "I wish" but didn't wish. Just watched.

a reminder:

Monday at my place -- a harvest feast!

Join us to celebrate Rosh Hashana, Mabon (the Autumnal Equinox), and New England at Harvest-time.

Monday, October 3, 2005
Address: Lasell Avenue, Northampton
Time: 4:00 p.m. until late – come whenever, stay ‘til whenever

Apples & new autumn Honey (from the apiary down the street)
Challah with raisins & without
"Really Good Soup" * (Veg Soup w/Matzo Balls)
Seven-Vegetable Couscous
Rice Noodles with Thai Veg. & Sesame
Carrot and Sweet Potato Tzimmes
Spicy Egyptian Eggplant
Stuffed Artichokes
Keftikes de Prassa – Leek Fritters
Carrot Curry (a traditional Indian Rosh Hashana dish)
Great-Grandma’s Honey Cake**

Honey Porter & Hefeweizen for abundance
Lots of wine for simcha! Sadly, no mead.

All recipes are vegan (except, for the truly insane, those with “honey” in the title)

Drop-in guests are welcome. Bring someone on short notice! Bring two!
We will have enough food to feed several small armies.

* Per Kristen the Housemate
**It's not my great-grandma's, though I'm sure she made it.

...

The beginnings of the vegetable soup:



....


Mycorrhizae

When you dig up a tree,
keep some soil around the roots,
webby strands
wrap the taproot, the calm anchor, reach
horizontal through duff and toad dung,
damp mould. Things move so
discreetly sometimes,
I didn't even notice.
A tiger's ear flares in shade,
was that the water molecule's
elemental split? The sleight of hand
described on page twenty? No, not exactly,
you prop a shingle barrier up
to shelter a wind-torn cabbage sprout.
Strawberries edge the bed, an upside down
pot keeps rain from the post hole,
another adage proved: plant
at the new moon,
a stitch in time saves nine,
if you must leave, don't
go bare, take some dirt with you.

-- Talvikki Ansel

Blue Dahlias

1

A celebration of life seems appropriate. For the living at least.
We search tidal pools for starfish, anemones, our reflections.

Indigo camas swath the park. My thin friend sits in the sun
in long sleeves and wide hat. One round of chemo to go.

Seeds drop on my head. Grey squirrels take risks playing
snakes and ladders in the elms. Nobody wins.

Of the dead I loved, there is only one death — yours.
One date etched in acid.

Before the parade, children wait on the curb for clowns.
A moving van (U Pak Only Once) follows the hearse.

2

We made 70,000 decisions building this house.
Whatever. We must do something while waiting to die.

Where is the owl who lived among the Garry oaks,
the sky's snarled threads?

A tent caterpillar crawls down his arm. The only welcome
wagon in this neighbourhood.

Katina's marina. For hours the vizsla sits by the pool
watching the koi swarm.

The lost purse dreams have stopped. I searched every city.
And for what? Mating robins and loud-mouth crows.

3

Black bamboo and rosa rugosa provide privacy in the new garden.
"Eats Shoots and Leaves" or "Eats, Shoots, and Leaves"?

Though we shredded the fabric of this land
the bushtits weave themselves back in.

Water cascades off the wood-sprite's hands.
Natalie trundles around the house emptying drawers.

Each plant is located according to a garden design.
Sprinting after squirrels, Katina snaps off the peonies.

Memories are plastic bags over my head.
Suicide in that house of rock and fog.

4

The kid says I'm too old for roller blades. The sign:
"Drive slow. Watch out for rugrats and old biddies."

You're only given a little madness. You mustn't lose it.
Those brown eyes. That smile. I'm in love!

The big bruiser orders me to move my car
parked in front of his house. Says he's a cop.

So? I'm a poet. Be a Raging Granny too.
It beats depression or medication.

We've made something beautiful. Why apologize?
I'm old enough to stand up to bullies.

5

The heron's beak points next door but her jaundiced eye
focuses on the koi pond. I'm keeping count.

Chasing barn swallows, the dog's in her glory.
In the Yuchi language God is a verb

and there is no word for temptation.
Bird feeders hang from the eaves beyond reach.

Grief / weighs down the see-saw; / joy cannot budge it.
I do not subscribe to this. Cannot.

The dog explodes into motion. A race horse
out of the gates. Exuberant as a springbok.

6

Tent caterpillars burst with a pop, spraying
the sandstone rust and lime. I have no mercy.

In the yard, the music of bronzed Greek gods
with rippling muscles. Play at work, work at play.

I'm feeling déracinée while new plants take root.
Will the gardeners ever leave? And the turquoise port-a-potty?

At the club an oak limb fell and demolished three cars.
In summer there's no warning. And in winter?

Natalie picks up their soft weightless bodies, mesmerized
as they curl around her fingers.

7

The dog brings home a finch
throbbing in her loose, soft mouth. No harm meant.

After the upheaval of moving, the soul requires
months to catch up. Dig earth, pull weeds, feed birds.

White spots on the caterpillars' heads are fly eggs.
Don't kill those. Remember the Jains.

Swoosh. Two mallards skid on to the pond,
rise on struts, fan and shower. Welcome.

Rhodos in tarty dress, plain-Jane grasses,
crone oaks rigid with vines. Everyone gathers.

8

Teenagers speak "up-talk" In a world hostage to terror
everything is a question.

Bateman couldn't wait for the lichen to grow;
so he painted it on the rock face.

Each morning robins sing praise ad nauseum.
The Maori elder was grateful for a good BM.

A dream crone appears with a yellow caterpillar
wriggling from her nose. Thou shalt not. . .

So many words are endangered. In Boro,
onguboy: to love from the heart.

9

Natalie is a monkey grasping my trunk.
When you got up this morning how did you avoid

thinking about death? The kildeer skitters
across the grass distracting us from her nest.

Every act has my fingerprint. Are these stone walls
safeguard or prison? Or simply stonewalling?

The way is through gratitude. Dogwood blossoms
tinged with pink. Three fawns playing tag.

Why cower under blankets?
Baby's tears spread among the flagstones.

10

In this house toys are required, not objets d'art.
Poets should be poor and lead simple lives.

How to describe the dance each tree performs?
The wind choreographs such abandon.

There's the cleaning and polishing, the insurance,
alarm system, the misgivings. All that weight.

The linden is threadbare, every leaf veined and
mottled like an old woman's hands. Yet precious. . .

the ragged sunspots it pours on stone.
In this garden dread must not take root.

11

According to Zen, one must learn the spirit — kokoro
of each plant and rock before placing it in the garden.

I treasure the copy of Moliere's Comedies, published in 1760.
Doesn't mean it's valuable, said the antiquarian.

Magnolia grandiflora, clematis alpina, camellia japonica.
Why this obsession for naming?

Imagine a language where you is the first person
and one feels uncomfortable saying I.

The bushtits' nest is a sock of cobwebs, moss and lichen.
Sit in the woods, wait for the day's offerings.

12

Whose dilemma is this? A bird dog lives here
and two mallards are guests.

On a rampage, Natalie pulls apart the blankie
she calls mama. The air electric with screams.

The basalt flagstones are so massive, we call
the woodland path the Appian Way.

No need to go on wandering. A frog comes
racheting under the full moon.

Only three stumps remain of towering elms
that embraced the family farmhouse.

13

Walking the path we perfume the air with mint.
This landscape we create together.

Gold coins glisten as koi knife the water
slurping pellets in their pursed mouths.

Such a foofaraw today when mama had to be washed.
Injustice depends on one's point of view.

The architect finds the rooster vane flimsy
for a concrete roof. Now the wind blows wherever.

I covet this verb from the Boro language:
Mokhrob — to express anger with a sidelong glance.

14

Longing — a whirling dervish — gathers me
in its relentless skirts.

Natalie has discovered her ears but Katina's long flaps
are a puzzle. The sun shines through them!

The old farmhouse looked forlorn;
so my sister painted the elms back in.

Onsra — to love for the last time. Tears lie in wait.
Lie in state. O Randall, my phantom son.

Let the earth lie lightly on you. Thus,
Romans bade their dead goodbye.

15

Three babies due in the family. A bumper year
for strawberries, poppies, caterpillars too.

The kinnikinnick was devoured to feed a multitude.
The universe is in flux.

Spiders erected scaffolding on the Appian Way.
Now they're wrapping up the house.

Where is my madness hiding? Too shy
to make the leap? Who ever dances now?

In Jaru, to be wise is to have ears.
How delightful her gibberish!

16

Resurrecting the dead is pathetic!
The dead are dead. Dead. Stone dead.

Inuit are comfortable with long silences.
Ice and snow are their teachers.

Let's be silly, build a spirit-house in the woods
where Natalie can drop off messages for fairies.

To dance like helixes of water-light
playing on the cedar ceiling!

New words on the tip of her tongue
ready to leap and dive. Then who will she be?

17

What patience the artist displayed:
a lifetime of trees one dab at a time.

Why not describe weather by the way
it feels on the body? Forget about degrees.

Try to get inside the infant's vast wordlessness,
which is the same as the silence of a teacher.

Elms descend to keep us company,
sprouting leaves thick as fur along their trunks.

I phoned Pacific Blinds
but wanted Illuminations.

18

Heart pounds on the dark's door. Too much
red wine. Blood grass in the shade.

We create each other. Who am I without him?
A reflection? An idea? A breath?

Halleluja! No brazen deer tiptoe around here.
Only a brass gazelle under the dogwood.

At first light, anxiety slinks in, a sticky customer
looking for something to adhere to.

Flick-flock of fountain, trickle of bird song.
Forget weeds for a while.

19

The neighbour pats my dog — a random act
worth noting when I gather kindness.

Cedar waxwings — aflame — flash back and forth.
Oak branches die after they crash.

Let's plant forget-me-nots and bleeding hearts
while koi splash among the parrot feathers.

Rock-a-bye baby on the treetop. Natalie falls,
drowns in a dream-pond. She has no words.

The heron's body in flight — delicate blue
stamen of the paradise-bird flower.

20

Weather, a second skin. Hot auburn fur.
Fog-moist arms. Wind-battered face.

Those old nightmares of losing my boy —
they came true.

Blackberry lolls over the property line.
Musky privet too. Thorny, pesky neighbours.

Now if I could erase this splendid sorrow,
would I?

Natalie's busy tongue darts in and out.
She spends too much time with dogs.

21

I interrupt a moonsnail, its foot plunging a clam.
Egg-cases like inner tubes half-buried in sand.

The toddler plunks down beside a stranger, offers
a fistful of sand.

Fog everywhere, nowhere. Harrumphing
bullfrog-foghorns. Houses painted sfumato.

Jellyfish are lenses casting self-images in the sea.
The old lady complains about her new corneas.

A friend pities me for being a slave to objects.
Just an observation.

22

How to forget childhood's flashbulb memories?
The cod with a kitten in its stomach.

The drowned fisherman,
a starfish glommed to his face.

That 200-year-old yew is rather elderly
to fan dance in the wind. Yippee!

How lucky! Desire-lines in the garden
coincide with the paths laid down for us.

Who'd guess that yews used to haunt graveyards
and hang out with dead Druids!

23

Old ladies tsk-tsk as a bare-belly teenager walks by.
At the golf club I'd better mind my p's and q's.

A woman described her friend as "a kick in the head."
It was meant as a compliment.

In the Zeballos courtroom the slain girl's relatives
and the killer's, embraced.

School's out. Teenagers parade the beach.
Were we ever so beautiful?

This seems significant. On Dallas Road
I know the dogs' names but not their owners'.

24

Why call a flower "impatiens"
when it waits all winter to bloom?

I want to identify each plant, roll its name
on my tongue, savour its melody.

Those picky Oak Bay juncos tossed aside my seeds.
Raindrops chainlink on the pond.

My 80-year-old friend bursts into song.
"Up, up I go, said Froggy. I can climb as well as hop."

"Sister Therese" at my feet —
a pious hydrangea! Strait-lacey.

25

Naming may be a waste of time. According to the Tao
the nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth.

My dreams have flatlined. Now where?
Four fledgling barn swallows confer on the grass.

At times, the moonsnail must leave its shell
or suffocate. Katina digs a hole to China.

Same old pond round and round.
They don't even swim upstream!

Wildtrack — kids whoop next door.
A friend on Saltspring bought two donkeys.

26

At the FolkFest an Indian gentleman sang
ghazals. How serendipitous for me!

Talking to strangers I discover friends of friends
but lose my tongue with a man who dislikes birds.

The Japanese maple dances a tango in red
on the water while koi slap their tails.

Those rejected bird seeds are sprouting under the feeder.
Natalie wings stones into the pond.

Stupid to cry over what is not. You at twelve
with brooding look, a parrot on your shoulder.

27

We have no gate. Only entrance pillars.
Does a house need a name like a baby or a dog?

The history of weather inscribed on trees —
lightning-gashes, phantom limbs, fallen leaves.

When the doctor diagnosed terminal cancer
the crone danced. What you must fear is not to have lived.

Katina is one sexy babe gob-smacking,
lickety-splitting every dog in the park.

Ivy's embrace strangles the oak. The velcro
grandmother brought a suitcase of baby clothes.

28

Compliments on the new house and garden
become tedious, have nothing to do with. . .

The sudden magic of "Hi," a throwaway word,
her first. A door opens.

Caterpillars gone, the Camper Down elm
recovers its good nature.

So he reminds me
to be loving. Why be ashamed?

The granite erratic was streeled here by a glacier.
One way or another, we're all transplants.

29

Upended, the spider crab is comical
brandishing pincers like boxing gloves.

The nuthatch couple stick close to home.
Yet they don't know their name.

Christmas in July. The yew decked out in rubies.
Edmontonians shovelling hailstones.

It's too hot to view Art in the Street.
Enjoy what's on your wall.

Forty-two years married. In his anecdotage
he spins stories of his other selves.

30

Purple finch. What a misnomer!
What do finches call us?

June Callwood said that dying was easy compared to
losing a son. She'd already made the journey.

The Society labels schizophrenics
consumers! What do they consume but themselves?

The painted woman has blank eyes with no pupils.
Black lips too. An avatar you want to forget.

Snow on the lawn —
Katina has disembowelled her green moose.

31

A hot dry summer. The oaks are crotchety.
We too shall be pruned and culled.

Give away the owl collection.
Too many eyes, too many hangers-on.

Why label the lavatera? It's enough
that pink blossoms sprawl in all directions.

We've swapped a million gene fragments. In a lifetime
we've become each other!

The crow exploded on the transformer.
A murder of crows gathers.

32

A hoe, a spade, a rake — what more do I need?
Gardening is an instrument of grace.

Ordinary delights grow here — barren wort,
bugbane, fountain grass, meadow rue.

And one day, maybe even blue dahlias —
something rare, unheard of.

Why build a fancy house when you desire a cottage?
Travel doesn't satisfy craving. Craving for what?

Dervishes whirl around their hearts,
burn like a torch. This too is prayer.

33

My friend sends a weathering —
a haiku to hang on the Japanese maple.

Katina suns among the lavender. Nose tweaking
the breeze. Not a cloud in her eyes.

Slug-bitten, the drooping hydrangea plays
the drama queen. Drink to me only.

We are your gardens dying, blossoming.
Naming should not destroy the mystery.

I wander the garden looking for poetry
under the bush. We play cat and mouse.

34

Harvest moon shines through the stained-glass sun.
Tonight the heron is fishing.

Clever weeds huddle close to flowers they resemble.
I pulled up the hostas by mistake.

The caress of lake water
like velours, like butter, like a forgotten lover.

When a winning racehorse dies, they bury its head, hooves
and heart. The heart makes the difference.

Katina disappears in white caps chasing seagulls out to sea.
Natalie toddles next door to visit the man with Alzheimers.

35

I imagine myself in picture hat and long gown
snipping flowers in the garden. Incorrigible romantic.

A chickadee gets trapped in the skylight.
The only escape: to move away from the light.

Sometimes, by mistake, we call the baby Katina.
Neither animal seems to mind.

After a venomous email, I dream
of floundering through ice water up to my knees.

Ancient Chinese sent a sketch of a bamboo leaf
to indicate all was well.

36

That scruffy squirrel plucks fluff from its tail
to build a nest. The perfect little homebody.

Natalie touches my eye, nose, mouth as if naming me.
A startling intimacy.

A man dies after eating monkshood. Keep an eye on
those two behind the bench; they're no longer innocent.

House finches skirmish at the feeder, oblivious of
Katina's yellow eyes tracking wasps.

My father's haunt is a comforting companion.
But not yours. You died a stranger, my son.

37

This garden is an aristocrat with good bones:
mature elms and oaks, granite outcrops. Flesh of flowers.

Ancestors speak more kindly than the Bible.
Nor do they label women virgin or whore.

Slanting rain scribbles out the trees, the shed.
Ancient beaches come to life in the sandstone.

I — who heard your first cry —
how did I miss your last? How?

Remember when you discovered puddles and
autumn leaves. Why did you stop singing?

38

On the window a downy smudge of grey.
Lucky bird with no inkling of death.

You now have a namesake, Randall.
This time, Fate, please be merciful.

But his mother, my niece, is stone deaf.
How on earth will she hear his cries?

Don't talk to me of another dream house.
In a nightmare it stood empty and dark.

I've photographed her a hundred times.
Afraid she'll disappear?

39

In Haida Gwai'i, aboriginal houses had names:
The Something Terrible Happened House.

House the Clouds Sound Against as They Roll Upon It.
Ahhh! Listening to clouds.

Lost joys: dancing, swimming, skiing.
So! I'm not dead yet!

He forgot to wind the grandfather clock.
Hurry up! A downy woodpecker is at the suet.

The little attic room sits empty and waiting
for grandchildren to grow into it.

40

Katina is vociferous when we embrace.
Wedges her way between. The other woman.

Yes, goofy dog, those acorns dropping on the roof
could be squirrels.

We sold the Something Terrible Happened House
without telling the buyers what. Happened.

Was that wrong? Being a sinner isn't all bad.
One thinks twice about judging others.

This week we welcome the heron, the owl and the hawk.
The home we've been longing for.

-- Margo Button