In The Morning Light

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When I walk into the morning light of the field, the grasses below are soft and succulent, of green. Hundreds of grasshoppers shimmer a flash in jump as though they are peeling the seas as I amble through the pasture. Their scattered hops sound of rain as they land newly leafed elsewhere. Ragweed leaves sag with new found jumping companions and blades of grass are made iridescent with the winged creatures weighing them heavy.

There is a persistent purr of chirps orchestrated by all of the bugs of September. The sound that is here today, with errant cricket songs, is the one that will be blanketed by the white of winter. (And there will be joyous rest in that silence, too.) I am taking note of the fertility today as I feel the seasons changing, and I am writing it as a reminder that I reveled in these seasons. I drank the nectar day after day and I continue to sip from the well of great fertility and grace.

A buoyant field of goldenrod gently bounces with the breeze and with the sun it makes gold layered upon gold. This morning I woke to the proud stalks of goldenrod and sunflowers and I wept. A human could not dream a more beautiful life than what is presented here in our days on this beautiful Earth.

The trees are changing ever so slightly in color, with the cottonwood seeming the first to layer its yellows and lose its leaves, gently shedding each day. Much else is still lush, green, and giving. Warm pears are plucked from the trees and in so a bowed branch is released upward again. Worms are delighting in each fallen fruit that comes to them sooner than to my hands and they rejoice in the plenitude, as do the chickens. My kitchen smells of homemade apple sauce and simmering pear, and my grandfather’s concord grapes scent the September air, sending me back to my youth and I am waist high all over again. Except this time, I am taking steps in becoming my mother and grandmother. Each gift in the grape they have instilled into me I practice now to pass onto another, waist high or otherwise.

I will be singing of the morning light and the evening light long after I have returned to the soil and come again in the golden morning. Each thread of day, of year, of season, of moment, is a golden bath unto its own. And here we flicker in the jubilant seas like the grasshopper iridescent in the rays, shining long into the day, pretend alchemists to the already gold.

morningflowers

The Day I Planted Your Flowers

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Late in season, November,
And the first snow blessed each bulb finger pressed into
Deeper cool soil.
The fields quieted with fallen flakes
Broken only by the lamb’s cry,
Pleased and perhaps perplexed by his crown of white.
He gave a shake and laid the bridge of his face against my thigh.
The late farmer.
The novice in the field.
Thinking she had more Time
Until time itself had proved again the suspension of its own arms
To be finite.
My hands muddied with the mixture Of sweat, snow melt, and still sticky soils.
This one is for the dead,
This one is for woman unknown,
And this for my dear friend,
This one is for the breath of the Earth,
And she for the bees,
And this one is for the worm,
Another for celebration,
A hearty one for the inevitable whistle pig,
A bulb for marriage,
And she for ceremony,
And one for existence alone.
May you all stand for a world made more beautiful
By hands that dare to sow creation and hope into the soil, despite Ideal time, despite time at all.
May the Great Mother be happy to belly a new home for what is to Sprout with another Rotation.

Abby Rodriguez (November 2014)