A Handful of Bones Remained

Wrens nesting in the run-in come out to pick at fallen hay. The neighbor's sheep graze in sunlight, rest in the shade, come back to graze in the sunlight. How lovely to live in a way that allows one to notice clouds and the phase of the moon! Rhubarb growing "nicely," already harvesting onions, the milkweed bountiful where allowed to grow. 

There is a song I hear and when I do not hear it, it is not because I love the silence. At night the river says what it says between stars and darknesses. One psychic told me I would die from a wound in the throat and when I questioned this, grew irritated and ended the reading. Swallows at midday, another grace.

Yes I am counting. Yes I am cultivating. 

Yes, I care.

We lay row cover over the squash, scatter fistfuls of mostly dried manure at the base of the tomatoes. Peel potato bugs off deep green leaves and flick them to where the sparrows hunt. Are there too many birds in the sentences? Is there not enough song in the world or are we just not listening?

Thérèse wrote the credo in her own blood in the pocket-size gospels she carried with her everywhere, and when her body was exhumed years later, only a handful of bones remained. I'm not a gambler but women who are attracted to gamblers - or who were fathered by gamblers - are attracted to me. 

My hands in soil lifting rocks and setting seeds, my hands open to receive and not to kill.

At night when everyone is asleep I go outside to see what the daisies and ferns do under moonlight. 

I'm not dumb, I know that sometimes Satan comes as a man of peace, I see how it's falling apart, but I'm telling you, sometimes even the evil one is subdued and made happy and everything works out in what I'm not ashamed to say is love.