I remember.

Long summer days
watching a row of sunflowers
as they held daily devotions
turning from east to west
feeling into the light.

I, in the fullness of grief,
felt numb to the bright resilience
of their heavy blooms.

Yet they invited me to sit, each day.

And I remembered.

Moments, days, seasons
how there is a beginning and a turning
how we sometimes meet in the middle
how each of us will journey
from here to there
full of light if we lift our gaze.

Each morning, I rose and sat
until my heart was able to soften
into the loving that was
and will ever be.

-gina greene, 2022

As we head towards the path of smells and stick-tights
the dog and I pause at the edge of my errant garden
for a nibble of the long grass.
I find myself scanning the mighty millet
eyeing the overgrown avenues of my early effort
for a token, a hardy, a survivor
of this woman's overwhelm.
A boon for her blood.
A mineral hit of dirt hands sky sun
and the sweetness of water,
percolating below the surface
of everything.

August is gone
yet the anticipation of harvest
tugs at my innermost cells.
Like a vial of ancestral nostalgia
part drive to survive
part intelligent memory
part joyful existence
this body needs to gather
to store and to savor
the warm seeds and squashes
the soft juices and acidic sauces
all for winters latent quiet.

I believe it to be wisdom and yet long for the revolution
wherein I might choose to slow the pervasive rushing
of early mornings now fueled by the need to be on time
in the right amount of time before the bell rings
with the car moving and the lights and the podcast chatting
and the hanging over everything commitments
after school after work and not enough time to cook a good dinner
one better stop and get something from somewhere
that could be deemed
nourishment.

Resting in the in-betweens and sometimes
into the busyness itself is the height of this practice
yet missing much is often the core.
Fluid yet constant, these thoughts.

My attention, caught, by a pale green roundness
hanging over the side of the compost heap,
redolent and ready for turning.
A butternut beauty vining of its own accord
proud and somewhat ancient in demeanor.
Not yet ripened, she hopes for warmth
and enough breeze to keep the wet away from her leaves.
I hover awhile, enjoying the stillness of her weight,
the light of late morning, and the great gift
of form and plenty.

-gina greene, september 2020