Risa Stephanie Bear's Blog, page 2
May 14, 2018
Spring Springs
Spring springs upon her unawares;Perhaps she thought snow would driftRight up to her window, as it shouldIn February, as in her memoryNo such month escaped some white.Going forth in a sleeveless shift
She pockets up seeds for flats,Pulls out dank bins of soil,Reaches for small pots, sets hopeIn light. Such April ploys areNot to be counted on, she knows --Guessing random frostsStill may spring upon her unawares.
She pockets up seeds for flats,Pulls out dank bins of soil,Reaches for small pots, sets hopeIn light. Such April ploys areNot to be counted on, she knows --Guessing random frostsStill may spring upon her unawares.
May 7, 2018
What Was Hers But Is Not Hers Just Now
What was hers, but is not hers just now,Having suffered a rising tide of volesAnd other rodents (she does not doubt), isThe potting shed/solarium, a domain in
Which she'd reigned, she thought, for decades.All of it, she'd built herself. GatheringSlats of rough hewn barn wood, windows,
Heaps of antique bricks, a long green bench,Ever more pots and flats, bins and trowels,Royally she'd treated herself to her heaven,Seedlings doing as she'd have them do.
But then: disaster. Peas and beans tuckedUnder skeins of soil vanished by ones andThrees -- whole flats of corn plowed up.
Is there nothing to be done, she wonders,Short of slaughter by nefarious means?
Not the first option. She casts about amongOld tosswares in corners and on shelves.This rolled-up screening might do. Shears in
Hand, she measures as one measures cloth,Ever minding the selvage, to create capsRodents might decline to chew.Slipping these into place, adding to each
Just one stone per corner, usingUp the Buddha cairns she'd madeStacked here and there round the room.The precept honored, she waters all,
Not neglecting to sprinkle stones. Outcomes must be as they must be.We find true that find we do not reign.
Which she'd reigned, she thought, for decades.All of it, she'd built herself. GatheringSlats of rough hewn barn wood, windows,
Heaps of antique bricks, a long green bench,Ever more pots and flats, bins and trowels,Royally she'd treated herself to her heaven,Seedlings doing as she'd have them do.
But then: disaster. Peas and beans tuckedUnder skeins of soil vanished by ones andThrees -- whole flats of corn plowed up.
Is there nothing to be done, she wonders,Short of slaughter by nefarious means?
Not the first option. She casts about amongOld tosswares in corners and on shelves.This rolled-up screening might do. Shears in
Hand, she measures as one measures cloth,Ever minding the selvage, to create capsRodents might decline to chew.Slipping these into place, adding to each
Just one stone per corner, usingUp the Buddha cairns she'd madeStacked here and there round the room.The precept honored, she waters all,
Not neglecting to sprinkle stones. Outcomes must be as they must be.We find true that find we do not reign.
April 30, 2018
It Begins With Mare's Tails
It begins with mare's tails: wisps of ice
That spread, ghostly fingers from
Beyond the southwestern horizon; her
Ears feel the chill as she is planting bulbs.
"Go inside," her chapped hands urge her,
"Inside, your steaming kettle waits."
"Not yet," she replies. In her mind's eye
She watches thousands of daffodils bloom
Where grass grew. She must plant hundreds
If her dream will breathe. Altocumulus,
Those clouds like schools of fish, arrive.
Her hands hurt her now; cold clay
Milks moisture from gapped skin.
As she bends, shovel in one hand,
Round brown balls of life in the other,
Each destined for a hole along her fence,
She senses wind lifting skirts of
The cottonwoods and willows. Raindrops
Are arriving now, slanting through trees,
Investing her sleeves and hair with wet.
Leaving off at last, she, crutching on her
Shovel, pivots toward tea, book and fire.
That spread, ghostly fingers from
Beyond the southwestern horizon; her
Ears feel the chill as she is planting bulbs.
"Go inside," her chapped hands urge her,
"Inside, your steaming kettle waits."
"Not yet," she replies. In her mind's eye
She watches thousands of daffodils bloom
Where grass grew. She must plant hundreds
If her dream will breathe. Altocumulus,
Those clouds like schools of fish, arrive.
Her hands hurt her now; cold clay
Milks moisture from gapped skin.
As she bends, shovel in one hand,
Round brown balls of life in the other,
Each destined for a hole along her fence,
She senses wind lifting skirts of
The cottonwoods and willows. Raindrops
Are arriving now, slanting through trees,
Investing her sleeves and hair with wet.
Leaving off at last, she, crutching on her
Shovel, pivots toward tea, book and fire.
April 23, 2018
That Time When There Is Yet Nothing
That time when there is yet nothing,Her skills being at rest, synchronizedAnd sympathetic with soil's sleep --Timid buds of lilac or jonquil still
Tucked within themselves -- she wondersIf she's even a subsistence woman, isMistaken in that as so much else, as whenEven deep snow cannot efface what
Winter erases when it is nearest spring.Her hands stretch to packaged seeds;Enter into bargains with their quietude.Now? Now? Now? Now? she asks them,
Though she knows they will not move.Here by a cold window she spreadsEnvelopes on her table: peas, beets.Radishes will be first, nearest the house.Even now she smells them, lifted, bitten.
Is there nothing that can be done?She asks for the hundredth time.
You'd think the mud would dry a little,Evenings come later, mornings earlier,The birds nest and sing, daisies open!
No. Tools rest in their ranks, sharpened,Oiled. Clouds pass, low, lightless, sulking.The arbor's done, fences, orchard, Heaps heaped. All she needs todayIs that this blank month turn a littleNearer sun, before her plot of earthGrazes on forgetfulness too soon.
Tucked within themselves -- she wondersIf she's even a subsistence woman, isMistaken in that as so much else, as whenEven deep snow cannot efface what
Winter erases when it is nearest spring.Her hands stretch to packaged seeds;Enter into bargains with their quietude.Now? Now? Now? Now? she asks them,
Though she knows they will not move.Here by a cold window she spreadsEnvelopes on her table: peas, beets.Radishes will be first, nearest the house.Even now she smells them, lifted, bitten.
Is there nothing that can be done?She asks for the hundredth time.
You'd think the mud would dry a little,Evenings come later, mornings earlier,The birds nest and sing, daisies open!
No. Tools rest in their ranks, sharpened,Oiled. Clouds pass, low, lightless, sulking.The arbor's done, fences, orchard, Heaps heaped. All she needs todayIs that this blank month turn a littleNearer sun, before her plot of earthGrazes on forgetfulness too soon.
April 16, 2018
Begin
This time of year that room is not much visited.Its herringbone-patterned floor of worn brickstilts here and there where rodents have made inroads.
Homemade flats lie heaped in corners; stacks of cellslean sleepily together; insulation dangles;tools hang, festooned with webs and dust. Sometimes
when the door has been set ajar, a towhee wanders in,becomes confused at light from so many windows,beats itself silly, then rests, is eventually found
and shown the way out. There's not muchan old lady can do but wait, watching forearlier suns to rise, for petrichor,*
for that sudden dislocation brought onby stepping into sunshine by a southern wall.Then, after one jonquil blooms by way of
affirmation, she'll step in, rearrange things,dust her work bench and stool, bring seeds,open the soil bin, grab a pot, begin.
__________________________________*The odor of dry earth moistened by rain.
Homemade flats lie heaped in corners; stacks of cellslean sleepily together; insulation dangles;tools hang, festooned with webs and dust. Sometimes
when the door has been set ajar, a towhee wanders in,becomes confused at light from so many windows,beats itself silly, then rests, is eventually found
and shown the way out. There's not muchan old lady can do but wait, watching forearlier suns to rise, for petrichor,*
for that sudden dislocation brought onby stepping into sunshine by a southern wall.Then, after one jonquil blooms by way of
affirmation, she'll step in, rearrange things,dust her work bench and stool, bring seeds,open the soil bin, grab a pot, begin.
__________________________________*The odor of dry earth moistened by rain.
April 9, 2018
Weather Is a Thing, Now
Weather is a thing, now, she tells herself,
Every day surprising -- week, month
And season. When, whether and what
To plant, or how to schedule visits with
Her friends or family, across a pass or
Even in lowlands. Storm clouds will
Roll in, blizzards, fire, a tornado. She
Is sure there's easy weather somewhere
Such times as freezing fog, wind, or
A heatwave shuts her in. She'll admit
There are good days for her yet
Here beneath her patient apple trees.
If weather is a thing, so is simplicity.
Never waste a calm day, she says:
Go see trilliums, bespeak beargrass,
Nod to daisies, curtsy to wise willows.
On such days, forget falling trees and hills,
Water rising. Love life while you can.
Every day surprising -- week, month
And season. When, whether and what
To plant, or how to schedule visits with
Her friends or family, across a pass or
Even in lowlands. Storm clouds will
Roll in, blizzards, fire, a tornado. She
Is sure there's easy weather somewhere
Such times as freezing fog, wind, or
A heatwave shuts her in. She'll admit
There are good days for her yet
Here beneath her patient apple trees.
If weather is a thing, so is simplicity.
Never waste a calm day, she says:
Go see trilliums, bespeak beargrass,
Nod to daisies, curtsy to wise willows.
On such days, forget falling trees and hills,
Water rising. Love life while you can.
April 2, 2018
All that is Left is the Granny Smiths
All that is left is the Granny Smiths; she Loves that they cling to their shivered tree,Leaves long gone. Even the hens have left off
Trusting the sky to toss them sugar, andHave retired to their tractor, peckingAt storebought feed in its styrene bin.The winds whistle through, rasping
Ink-black twigs together; the apples nod andStub their green bellies. She
Lifts ten or so down, as if they were Each one of her own breasts, tenderlyFilling her small basket. In the kitchenThey will sit shyly waiting their turn:
It is the season for other foods; in Stoneware bowls, nuts and citrus
Talk among themselves in distant tongues.Here her hands make outland meals,Even finding work for lemon skins.
Granny Smiths are not much favored,Really, by her guests; in festive mood, if an Apple is desired, they'll reach for waxed,Not thinking of that one tree, strugglingNight and day to keep for them fresh joy. Yet she knows she cannot blame them;
Shy apples do their best in pie.Moonlight limns the fruit she did not pick;If some green globes remain at large tonight,The morning light will prove, tomorrow,Holiday for those that cannot buy.Squirrels and towhees will know what to do.
Trusting the sky to toss them sugar, andHave retired to their tractor, peckingAt storebought feed in its styrene bin.The winds whistle through, rasping
Ink-black twigs together; the apples nod andStub their green bellies. She
Lifts ten or so down, as if they were Each one of her own breasts, tenderlyFilling her small basket. In the kitchenThey will sit shyly waiting their turn:
It is the season for other foods; in Stoneware bowls, nuts and citrus
Talk among themselves in distant tongues.Here her hands make outland meals,Even finding work for lemon skins.
Granny Smiths are not much favored,Really, by her guests; in festive mood, if an Apple is desired, they'll reach for waxed,Not thinking of that one tree, strugglingNight and day to keep for them fresh joy. Yet she knows she cannot blame them;
Shy apples do their best in pie.Moonlight limns the fruit she did not pick;If some green globes remain at large tonight,The morning light will prove, tomorrow,Holiday for those that cannot buy.Squirrels and towhees will know what to do.
March 26, 2018
What to Do with Leaves
What to do with leaves, if one cannot leave them
Here beneath aspen, gum, maple and birch
As what they become in winter, a kind of skirt
To warm and feed fanned roots, is gather and
Toss them on a garden. She spreads hers
Over bed and path alike, with straw, with
Dead grass and weeds, barn bedding, the contents
Of kitchen bucket and tumble barrel, along
With any foliage that comes to hand, even prunings
If too small to bother with for her iron stove.
This is for worms and all their small companions
Heaving aside the earth of path and bed alike,
Leveling and loosening, making untilled tilth.
Evening comes and she stills, listening
As the city of humus thrums toward spring.
Very likely it's best to interfere not
Even this much in things, she tells herself, yet
She's always loved to tell her children: eat.
Here beneath aspen, gum, maple and birch
As what they become in winter, a kind of skirt
To warm and feed fanned roots, is gather and
Toss them on a garden. She spreads hers
Over bed and path alike, with straw, with
Dead grass and weeds, barn bedding, the contents
Of kitchen bucket and tumble barrel, along
With any foliage that comes to hand, even prunings
If too small to bother with for her iron stove.
This is for worms and all their small companions
Heaving aside the earth of path and bed alike,
Leveling and loosening, making untilled tilth.
Evening comes and she stills, listening
As the city of humus thrums toward spring.
Very likely it's best to interfere not
Even this much in things, she tells herself, yet
She's always loved to tell her children: eat.
March 19, 2018
Beets Are a Thing
Beets are a thing, she mused; all summerEvery seed she'd planted out refusedEvery opportunity to sprout, but Those in flats thrived, just as thoseSeedsmen told her they would not.
As for after they were transplanted, well!Rare was the beet that was not found by gophers.Even so, some were left not quite finished
As the gophers waddled away, and
Those she was grateful for. She brought inHer greens; made wilted salad; thenIn winter came across again the muddy half-moons.Nothing is better than gifted beetroot steamed,Gopher bitten, she told herself, or otherwise.
As for after they were transplanted, well!Rare was the beet that was not found by gophers.Even so, some were left not quite finished
As the gophers waddled away, and
Those she was grateful for. She brought inHer greens; made wilted salad; thenIn winter came across again the muddy half-moons.Nothing is better than gifted beetroot steamed,Gopher bitten, she told herself, or otherwise.
March 12, 2018
What to Do about Trees
What to do about trees, for she had room:Have an orchard. But isn't that thinkingAbout twenty years ahead? So she wentTo the tool room for her spade in November;
Took that and four apple saplings downOnto the flat by the road, and began. Years she
Did this, working up and around the riseOf better ground. Pears, cherries, quince
Abounded, but the plums got blight, and had toBe started over. She was too old to harvestOr even get shade from nut trees, they're so slow;Uncoupling crop from objective, she anyway setThem out, along with all the rest. Last, she
Thought of mulberries. The hens could haveReally used those. Oh, well. She ordered,Even this late in life, and planted once more,Even as those old hens looked on amazed:Something to offer folks not yet alive.
Took that and four apple saplings downOnto the flat by the road, and began. Years she
Did this, working up and around the riseOf better ground. Pears, cherries, quince
Abounded, but the plums got blight, and had toBe started over. She was too old to harvestOr even get shade from nut trees, they're so slow;Uncoupling crop from objective, she anyway setThem out, along with all the rest. Last, she
Thought of mulberries. The hens could haveReally used those. Oh, well. She ordered,Even this late in life, and planted once more,Even as those old hens looked on amazed:Something to offer folks not yet alive.
