Tonight I feel the need to balance the cheese with thoughtful attention. My notes from today are two: “Go striding in”, and “I wonder what my mother’s handwriting looked like before I knew her”. Huh. Not much to work with, there. Or maybe there is, and I’m too sniffy from ice-skating yesterday to recognize.
I read this today:
What is an act of war? Can a poem be an act of war? If so, can I declare a side? I will. In a safe minute. Goodness we take that for granted.
Act of War
Let’s stand with the rosebuds. No, not the roses.
Not the symbols of sovereigns in white rose and red,
or any flower pronouncing empire.
No, but let us stand with the wild and sprawling rosebuds,
the ones with the essence that sticks around in this land,
let me say I stand with the wild rose that cannot be transplanted or contained or made tame
by any wire or spray.
If there is a record to be pressed down by old encyclopedias,
if the record contains pressed flowers and history,
let it contain this.
I stand with the rosebuds.
If we stand against the roses,
together we stand for a fence against a big and creeping greed.
If we stand against it at all, all the dirt fights with us.
If we enlist the cornstalks and pumpkin patches on the local, the roots fight with us.
Let’s stand with the seeds, and the roots, and the grass.
If we stand against the roses I think we get the bees.
The honey is ours, for sure. Give me your artist hand to hold,
and we’ll stand right up against the fragrance.
Give us a big world to take from us,
and the fences will surely fall.
Here we are standing with rosebuds, no matter the sky.
Here we are with land on the line, and heartbeats to catalog.
Here is a cliff. And a plain. Here is bluff.
And here a Butte.
Here are all the landscapes of the heart.
I think I kind of like this one. I think it could be alright. I also think it could be one verse of a much larger poem, but there is time for that later. After the year is over. Hugs to you, this Monday, my poem people.