I left town for a week and came back to these fringes of green.
Not very tall—and at first glance, not very exciting, But looking closer, I see some lovely reddish shades.
Before I could fully appreciate this, I had to ascertain whether indeed the rye had germinated or whether this was just a new crop of the weeds I pull (or don’t). But I think this is the real deal. To be sure, I need to wait a little longer.
I’ve been waiting in my writing, setting poems aside, picking them up again, panicking because I might not have the most recent draft. Sometimes, the poems grow on me, and I see opportunities for nuance, for the subtle shadings. Sometimes, I grow tired of them, convinced that they are terrible. Time for waiting is running out, with just over a month before I turn in my thesis. But I can still get close to the ground of them, inspect their stems and blades, their rhythms and imagery (and I suspect that imagery is at the root of my worries). A garden is always in revision—something for me to keep in mind as I keep working at these poems.
As the calendar cruises toward National Poetry Month, what are you cultivating?
I love that the snow changes the way I see things. This morning didn’t bring drifts, but just enough shift in perspective, just enough of a clean slate, which feels right on the first day of the year. And while the garden has greatly changed, I have this one bloom, and the rosemary, and in the background the fava beans and rye my daughter planted. I love to make jokes about coming through the rye and the catcher in the rye.
Wishing you joy in the small things and strength for the big things throughout the year.