My Tree My Love

Hard rain breaks a record heat wave. I heard it falling in the middle of the night and immediately melted into the bed sheets with gratitude. I am so grateful, Beloved. And I can't stop. I am tethered to that which brings wholeness.

Inbetween rain bursts, I put a few echinacea plants in the ground. I move towards the medicinal. It's a small thing, but starting somewhere is important. Yes? A healer and her tools; when she falls short, she falls far.

Lemon balm, calendula, chickweed. A mending garden. Please, kneel here. I think we can; I know I must.

The woodpecker thrums and rolls. I love this sound because he is either calling to his love or feeding or warning that he is here. Every tree allows a different sound. Every bird hears the same song and yet, transcribes a different tune. Many woodpeckers are around this year; many chances to breathe together.

When I water lately, white moths and brown moths and gray moths flutter up and away from the ferns and hostas. I divert the water until they have safely escaped but I offer an apology anyway. In my tending I am also a disrupt-er. My heart is pure even though I can do better.

Apple slices and peanut butter. Basil from the garden for the salad. Lentils and rice. I eat alone and prepare alone and write alone; we are never alone. A hint of sun bursts through the iron clouds all at once, but only for a moment. I used to think that was God saying: look. Now I know it is Good saying: it is well. Yes, I meant type “Good.”

A cardinal wakes me and visits accordingly. My tree, my love, let my arms reach around. Let my heels press the soil above your roots. Let me hold.

I can only write these words here. I can only reach from here. I can only head east from here. Soon, but later. Let me. For now, I am stitched with absence. Mother Magdalene says: get the fuck up.