Tuck it Safe

Steel cut oats and a new dawn, a little chillier than expected. A relief from the heat is not unwelcome but no one wants a reminder of winter in August.

Plants and the Tree of Life grow in the garden still. Nature is not mute and has her way with us. It's “her”, right? Knowledge in the plants. Transcendence. Those who have ears to hear.

In weakness, I hug the tree and feel a little better. Will that soothe enough in the cold, winter darkness? But that is not now. Now is August and shimmering heat and cicadas strumming, “ harvest but don't hoard...share...love better in the first place.”

A grebe nestled its baby using her whole neck to wrap around the little one and tuck it safe. Like that.

In a high-minded sky, striated clouds hang like a rib cage as if to say that the heart was below, here with the plants and the trees and the flowers and the humans making a mess of everything.

During our conversation on the trail, vines snagged my body. They put holes in my shirt and shredded the skin on my arm. I didn't tell you that. But now I will have these bloodied scars as a way of watching the healing up close. As if the heart wasn't close enough!

Pine needle basketry. Clematis spurning suburban mailboxes. The realization that desire is pitch-forward.

I think the way chicory grows with Queen Anne's Lace is about as close to heaven's door as we can get today. We. Always we.