Tiger Lily Days

The hot days and cool nights marked

by garden tiger lilies and roadside rogues

and early cherry tomatoes that I pick

and eat here in my shaded chair –

book, pencil, paper, iced tea, these words.

 

 

tiger lilies

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Volunteers

At the garden edges, the volunteer seedlings

grow on their own despite my human

weeding deliberations at order, symmetry and control.

Thankfully not reliably identical to their parents.

Volunteers try modestly to change the world.

 

Lychnis coronaria Rose Campion

 

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church

but you spend this Sunday with me,

on the October garden bench reading poems

from your small hand-sewn fascicles, never published,

but for here and now, where God

preaches and the sermon is never long.

 

reading garden


This poem recalls – and borrows lines – from Emily Dickinson, whose poems I was reading this morning.

Emily Dickinson, poet of the interior life, poems,written quietly in a room of her own, often hand-stitched in small volumes, then hidden in a drawer,  died without fame, only a few poems were published in her lifetime, then published with words altered by editors or publishers according to the fashion of the day.

The volume I’m reading, The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Reading Edition, has 1,789 poems with Dickinson’s spelling, punctuation, and capitalization intact.