there are rooms

There are rooms in a life that may sometimes
Have someone in them; but they are guests there.
Even when one most loves, one may find,
Really, a solitude that begins at this wall,
Ends at that wall; the rest is not entirely ours.

As years turn and suns, moons and stars
Rise up and fall like rain by every window
Even one's hands will shrivel soon enough

Right at the ends of one's arms, as hands
Of strangers. But to fret at this discovery
Of emptiness arrived at and emptiness
Made clear by moon's dance with water,
Sun's dance with dust, by endings never sought

In even that one room that is one's own, is
Not worthy of even that we call our life.

All our guests deserve from us restraint.

Little enough we can offer them as it is;
In a short while each vacates each room,
Feeling for the light switch as each goes.
Evening comes. Do not grieve the door.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #grief

just about

Just about her favorite thing is to

Unseal bright papery packets and

Set out flats of germination soil

The length of her bench, then scratch in parallel



Along each flat, with a stick, five lines for seeds.

By and by, the covered infant sprouts appear;

Or don't, in which case repeat until satisfactory.

Under her grow lights, not great ones, but good enough,

The seedlings make two leaves and then two more:



Here she makes more flats, with this time in

Each flat eighteen pots, filled with dampened

Rooting soil. A hole in each pot waits



For one tiny plant; the soil to be pressed

Around the taproot and tiny rootlets, then

Very gently watered -- from below, pouring

Over the flat's lip a tea of comfrey.

Really she overdoes it, making hundreds,

In every kind, of vegetable starts, far more

Than she can plant, but is fine with that; most

Everyone she knows will willingly give them homes.



That's her means, in old age, of making

Happen a kind of revolution. There are

In towers far away, those who would

Not have us eat what will not make them rich.

Go, little plants! Feed free souls free food.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading

A Festive Feast of Flavors

Gleaming sweets adorned with cheer,
Indulging every taste, oh dear!
Nutty spices fill the air,
Golden edges, crisp and rare.
Every bite a festive delight,
Rich and warm, a cozy sight.
Baked with love, a timeless treat,
Reaping joy, so rich and sweet.
Each piece tells a story bold,
A holiday tradition to behold.
Dancing flavors, memories unfold.

the rhythm of the work

The rhythm of the work is to set down

Her padded bench, a flat, and trowel at the

End of a bed and drop as if in prayer,



Reach for the trowel (bent for her old

Hand at right angles), dig, then grope for a pot.

You may see each hole is deep and wide enough

To exactly take the root ball. She carefully

Holds this in her shade, tips the damp

Mass in, packs with trowel, repeats all -- three



Or four times -- then stands. Behind her, some

Four plants glow green in any six feet of bed.



The rhythm of this work, when best, resembles

How monks or nuns in supplication glide

Easily to the floor, centered, unconcerned



With body or mind, then rise, then glide again,

Outcomes not sought, nor merit earned.

Right to the end of the bed she goes,

Kneeling to simply do with her rough hands.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #practice

what to do about trees

What to do about trees, for she had room:
Have an orchard. But isn't that thinking
About twenty years ahead? So she went
To the tool room for her spade in November;

Took that and four apple saplings down
Onto the flat by the road, and began. Years she

Did this, working up and around the rise
Of better ground. Pears, cherries, quince

Abounded, but the plums got blight, and had to
Be started over. She was too old to harvest
Or even get shade from nut trees, they're so slow;
Uncoupling crop from objective, she anyway set
Them out, along with the rest. Last, she

Thought of mulberries. The hens could have
Really used those. Oh, well. She ordered,
Even this late in life, and planted once more,
Even as those old hens looked on amazed:
Something to offer folks not yet alive.

-- shonin #poetry #gardening #orchard #acrostic #homesteading

what to do with leaves

What to do with leaves, if one cannot leave them

Here beneath aspen, gum, maple and birch

As what they become in winter, a kind of skirt

To warm and feed fanned roots, is gather and



Toss them on a garden. She spreads hers

Over bed and path alike, with straw, with



Dead grass and weeds, barn bedding, the contents

Of kitchen bucket and tumble barrel, along



With any foliage that comes to hand, even prunings

If too small to bother with for her iron stove.

This is for worms and all their small companions

Heaving aside the earth of path and bed alike,



Leveling and loosening, making untilled tilth.

Evening comes and she stills, listening

As the city of humus thrums toward spring.

Very likely it's best to interfere not
Even this much in things, she tells herself, yet

She's always loved to tell her children: eat.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #soil #composting

or otherwise

Beets are a thing, she mused; all summer
Every seed she'd planted out refused
Every opportunity to sprout, but
Those in flats thrived, just as those
Seedsmen told her they would not.

As for after they were transplanted, well!
Rare was the beet that was not found by gophers.
Even so, some were left not quite finished

As the gophers waddled away, and

Those she was grateful for. She brought in
Her greens; made wilted salad; then
In winter came across again the muddy half-moons.
Nothing is better than gifted beetroot steamed,
Gopher bitten, she told herself, or otherwise.

-- shonin #acrostic #poetry #homesteading #gardening

Happy Mother’s Day

Magnificent in every way,
Open arms to guide and sway.
Tender heart that always cares,
Holding memories through the years.
Endless love, a constant light,
Reflecting warmth, both day and night.

decembering in the orchard

All that is left is the Granny Smiths; she
Loves that they cling to their shivered tree,
Leaves long gone. Even the hens have left off

Trusting the sky to toss them sugar, and
Have retired to their tractor, pecking
At storebought feed in its styrene bin.
The winds whistle through, rasping

Ink-black twigs together; the apples nod and
Stub their green bellies. She

Lifts ten or so down, as if they were
Each one of her own breasts, tenderly
Filling her small basket. In the kitchen
They will sit shyly waiting their turn:

It is the season for other foods; in
Stoneware bowls, nuts and citrus

Talk among themselves in distant tongues.
Here her hands make outland meals,
Even finding work for lemon skins.

Granny Smiths are not much favored,
Really, by her guests; in festive mood, if an
Apple is desired, they'll reach for waxed,
Not thinking of that one tree, struggling
Night and day to keep for them fresh joy.
Yet she knows she cannot blame them;

Shy apples do their best in pie.
Moonlight limns the fruit she did not pick;
If some green globes remain at large tonight,
The morning light will prove, tomorrow,
Holiday for those that cannot buy.
Squirrels and towhees will know what to do.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #homesteading #gardening #seasons #orchard

weather is a thing

Weather is a thing, now, she tells herself,

Every day surprising -- week, month

And season. When, whether and what

To plant, or how to schedule visits with

Her friends or family, across a pass or

Even in lowlands. Storm clouds will

Roll in, blizzards, fire, a tornado. She



Is sure there's easy weather somewhere

Such times as freezing fog, wind, or



A heatwave shuts her in. She'll admit



There are good days for her yet

Here beneath her patient apple trees.

If weather is a thing, so is simplicity.

Never waste a calm day, she says:

Go see trilliums, bespeak beargrass,



Nod to daisies, curtsy to wise willows.

On such days, forget falling trees and hills,

Water rising. Love life while you can.

-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #seasons