Late Spring, When the Plants Start to Talk

And a poet starts listening, because that's what poets do.

Every so often I’ll put up one loooong poem here, instead of two medium-sized ones. What follows may actually look like three poems, but trust me: all songs from the same show.

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LATE SPRING, WHEN THE PLANTS START TO TALK


Ornamental Grass

Yes, we stir in the breeze, but not as much
as you think; we do not dance for you, for you
we catch, we hold. Light and shadow, caught in our blades,
are cradled there to captivate your eyes; we catch the leaves
that other plants let fall and the wind carries, hold them
for you to look at one by one, and when the wind
carries crumpled tissues or candy-wrappers,
we catch those too, hold them next to the leaves, a picture
of separate lives shared in one space. When the wind
sets us dancing, the dance is for us, as the small
plain flowers at our stem-tips are for us; for you,
for you, is what we catch and hold, the bits of life
that living things discard, the light and shadow.


Climbing Rose

I am loved.
I am loved.
I am loved.
Earth loves me.
Air loves me.
Rain loves me.
Sun loves me.
West wind loves me.
I am loved.

I live because I am loved.
I leap up to blossom over doors and in windows because I am loved.
I scent the whole street because I am loved.
My roots dig deep to bear my weight because I am loved.
Warm walls quicken me as sunlight does, because I am loved.
I grow green and flower under sun and sky because I am loved.

I am here because I am loved.
I do what I do because I am loved.
I am who I am because I am loved.
I am loved.
I am loved.


Bougainvillea

Hey.
Hey. Over here.
Hey, rootless, slow down and listen up. I've got things to say
about the geniuses who planted me against a north wall
where I get maybe ten minutes sun each day, more to say
about that brute of a wind off the coast, hell-bent

on bending me to east. Well, I've got roots at least,
at least these masterminds think to water me
now and then. I may never be what I should,
may never have leaves at every branch-tip
that blush magenta and crisp away to confetti
that floats on air, I may never flower, never send out
small white stars to bloom through all that purple-red riot,

I may not become what I was meant to be, what I could
have grown into in sunlight, out of the wind, against a wall
of warm brick instead of clammy plaster, but by God
I'll drink and grow and cling, and make what thorns I can
if I can't make flowers, and stay as green as I can
if I manage no other color, and live as long as I can
if I never bloom and seed. That's what I have to say, and now
I've said it. As for you, that question you carry in your pocket

as you blow along like a fallen leaf, I have no advice,
not in this wind. It's up to you, figure it out. But first
write down what I'm telling you, read it to others, get them
to pay attention, when they plant, to what will thrive
in which location. Staying alive takes a lot of work,
more if you want to grow. 
They should know that. They're living too,
rootless and leafless though they are.

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The late spring in question was the spring of 2020. It was quiet outside.

I had retired from my office job at the end of January, so I didn’t have to figure out how to work from home once the shut-down was declared. I live alone — no partner trying to manage their own work set-up, no children to homeschool. I was spending ‘way too much time doom-scrolling online, and life online, God knows, was loud.

The sky, though, the streets, the neighborhood … quiet. So quiet.

One friendly thing I did that spring was take a workshop, via Zoom, on the topic of discernment. Each week we’d be offered a couple of exercises to help quiet and clear our minds, consider situations and alternatives openly and attentively. Some of the exercises were rational (pro/con list, anyone?), some imaginative, some spiritual, and one was, well, a little woo. Go outside, we were told. Find some natural object that “speaks to you,” spend some time in its presence while holding in your mind whatever choice or situation you’re trying to discern. See if Nature with a capital N has wisdom to offer you.

Which is how I ended up six blocks from home, being yelled at by a scruffy, bad-tempered bougainvillea shrub. Once I escaped — it took some doing — I found myself walking through my neighborhood hearing from practically everybody … including the ornamental grass in the little garden next to the community center, and the climbing rose about to engulf a nearby house. The quiet outside had taken on a whole new quality.

Send a poet outdoors in late spring with instructions to listen to Nature speaking. Will she come back with an answer to the question she carries in her pocket? She might. Will she come back with a poem? Indeed, she might. Will she come back muttering plant-songs under her breath? If it’s quiet enough out there, all bets are off.