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.
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.
The pitchfork goes deep to the hilt
and upturns soil, first weeds and worms.
Working in compost and turning it again,
clods to be dissolved by tomorrow’s rain.
Seed and seedling, hopeful for the season.
Sunlight crisp through bare almost-spring trees and
the air still March cool except here,
this circle around us, hot coffee and
eggs and toast, birds breakfasting on seeds,
last summer’s flowers watching us with interest.
Inspired by such a morning and Basho’s haiku:
I am one
who spends his breakfast
gazing at morning glories
Blue light through blue glass. Lune bleue.
I close the window but the garden
scents and insect sounds still come through.
It is a humid, living jungle tonight.
I hope glass can hold it back.
Mutual pleasure in the tomato that slips
off the vine at the lightest pull,
red, ripe and ready, a slight softness.
Cherry-sized fruit with no scent of nightshade,
only summer sunlight bursting on the tongue.