Separate lives sharing one space

A poem in which I listen to plants, and some words about a writing slump

Photo by Daniela Bi on Unsplash

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During the held-breath quiet of Spring 2020, I took a Zoom workshop about discernment and decision-making. One bit of suggested homework was to take a walk outside while mindful of whatever question or decision was exercising you, and let some natural object “speak to you” about it. So out I went, and to be sure I heard some bits of nature speaking. They weren’t necessarily interested in me, but they had plenty to say about themselves.

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LATE SPRING, WHEN THE PLANTS START TO TALK                               2020


Ornamental Grass

Yes, we stir in the breeze, but not so much
as you think; we do not dance for you, for you 
we catch, we hold. Light and shadow, meshed in our blades,
catch there to captivate your eyes; we hold the leaves
that other plants let fall and winds send spinning, lift 
them high for you to look at one by one, and when the wind 
comes tossing crumpled tissues or candy-wrappers, 
we hold them too, next to the leaves, a picture 
of separate lives sharing one space. When winds whirl by
and make us dance, the dance is ours, and ours the small
plain flowers at our stem-tips; for you, the things
we catch and hold, for you 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 blooming over doors and 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 work, 
more work if you want to grow. 
They should know that. They’re living too, 
rootless and leafless though they are.

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This poem (I know it looks like three of them, but I think of it as one) made its debut on Substack in the Spring of 2023, when I’d been posting here for about five weeks. It is, in fact — don’t tell the bougainvillea I said so — a rerun. I’ve been publishing the occasional rerun practically since I started this page, but you’ve been seeing a lot of them lately. This week I’m moved to tell you why, and the Why is pretty straightforward: I’m going through a writing slump.

When I started this Substack, back in that fabled Spring of 2023, I had (still do have) a decent backlist of poems written over previous decades, and I was several months into the process of changing my poem-writing habit from a Series of Sporadic Events into a Practice, as nearly daily as I could manage. And by my standards it went spectacularly well; between the encouragement of having real-time readers here¹ and spending time regularly on the page, I completed more than thirty new poems in 2023. Same again in 2024; same again (what is this sorcery?) in 2025.

In 2026 to date, I’ve completed … five (5) new poems. Not for lack of time spent on the page; not for lack of dutiful swings-and-misses at some of the many prompts that circulate on Substack and elsewhere; I just haven’t been catching the moments that want me to write about them. My latest self-assigned word play is to scribble six of the worst poems I can possibly write into my notebook each morning before I finish my coffee. That’s covering a lot of paper, and it’s keeping me from seizing up at the sight of a blank page, and … wow, this stuff is awful. I was a teenager once and I know bad poetry, and this? It’s bad. I will be so grateful when I have a real poem to work on again.

I have to believe I that I will. Experience has shown it to be true; I used to go months on end between poems, back when I was working fulltime and wishing I was some other kind of writer, but poetry always came and found me eventually. This is … a process, and a chance to let my Teen Freak flag fly. (In private. Only in private.) In the meantime … well, I haven’t yet shown you everything on my backlist. I haven’t even shown you all of the poems that found me so far in 2026. And there will be more reruns, count on it. As you can count on me to keep showing up here with something or other, every living Wednesday … because showing up here with a poem or two and knowing that you’re making room in your day for something I wrote is absolutely part, now, of what keeps me writing, and what keeps me going in general. Count on that, too.

1. Thank you, thank you, thank you. No, really; thank you.