Haiku 25
4/25/2010

bat and screech owl
bags of leaves and cut bamboo
goodnight neighborhood

We went to the dreamiest wedding on Saturday evening.

I love weddings. 
I always cry (which is one of the things I love)
and I get both nostalgic and happily expectant at the same time.

I especially adore outdoor weddings. 
I had one, so I’m biased, but I think there’s nothing so conducive to a big, beautiful, expansive marriage as gathering all of a couples’ friends and families together with the bugs and birds and wind and sky, in recognition and celebration. Really, I think it’s a visceral way to say, "Yes, we’re ready for everything, bring it in and on…" 

And this is never truer than when rain taunts (which, as a rule, it does).
You’ve planned an outdoor wedding and rain taunts and you have to be both flexible and hopeful,
both prepared and willing to be surprised. 
And not to oversimplify life or marriage or anything, but what else is there?

For this wedding, all the rain (and threatened rain) of last week went away.
The sun came out, the fields dried up, the hoop house at the farm was laid with long, simple tables
and strung with tiny white lights.
Charley and Sarah were married.
Happiness and mazel tov.

Haiku 24
4/24/2010

crops in sunset fields
bride and groom under chuppah
what fine promises

I know you don’t think "lush" when you think of Texas, but I’m not kidding you when I say that spring here is positively spongy and fragrant and green.

I’ve always really like all the pagan-naturalist messages of spring — the rebirths and possibilities — and there are flower buds and baby birds enough to believe all that right now.

But, also, there is something about spring that is so … transitory.
I mean, really, not to be a downer but the buds are so brief and the cool evenings will be steamy soon and the greens are likely to get a little brown around the edges.
And that’s all okay, I guess. 
There’s some sort of maturity that comes with the next seasonal change, and with accepting the next seasonal change.

For now, though, for a little while longer, it’s still spring.

Haiku 23
4/23/2010

butterflies migrate — 
a world of orange in the yard
momentarily

Haiku 22
4/22/2010

air thick and humid —
is this a blessing or curse,
a breathe or a bath?

Haiku 21
4/21/2010

Hello, old grackle
You’re almost pretty today
But don’t eat the beans
 

Way back when, before life at our house got all crazy and cancer-centric, I was invited by a couple of folk to do some National Poetry Month thing-a-ma-jigs at their blogs. 

One of those people was the inimitable and delightful Jama Rattigan.
Saying no to Jama would be like saying no to the Queen — you’d never say no because you’d never want to.

So.
I sent her a poem.
And a recipe (that I made up. which is hilarious. because I’m not that great a cook.)
And some photos of barley and stuff.

I’d since forgotten about it to focus on bigger, harder things than acorn squash.
(As most of you know, I’m writing a haiku a day right now and that’s about it, blog-wise.
I’m barely reading blogs and, although I relish every note and comment I receive, I’m barely responding.
All of this makes me sad, but it’s about capacity and mine seems to have shrunk something fierce.)

So suffice it to say that today’s post on Jama’s blog surprised me.
A friend, in fact, had to tell me it was there. 
It’s that poem I’d sent her.
And the recipe.
And some photos of barley and stuff.

And, well, a lot more. 
The thing is, Jama does not approach the world with garden-variety loving kindness.
No-sirree bob.
She is all about seeing the world at its best and saying so, and honestly, it makes the rest of us want to live up to that.

At least that’s how I felt today when I read her post. 
Well, first I felt like blushing and then I felt like, dang, I better go do something good to deserve this.
Y’know?

The world we live in is a funny place. 
So much to worry about and be frustrated by.
And then there’re folk like Jama, who can turn a bad day on its ear just like that.

I’m grateful to her, and to you all for stopping by even though I’m sort of barely here to pour the tea….

Namaste.

Haiku 20
4/20/2010

each night the moon shines
even when you can’t see it
you just know it’s there

Our dog is 15.
Which is, as you know, 105 to you and me.
She is exceedingly slow and quite gimpy, nevermind the glucosamine and fish oil and all the rest.
And her eyes are gummy.
And she seems flat-out flummoxed sometimes. 
But she also sleeps with a smile on her face, wags whenever one of us walks into the room, and barks like a baby when we grab the leash and head to the door. 
So, we carry on…

Haiku 19
4/19/2010

Young dogs come sniffing
but the old dog turns away.
Smelled it all before…

The old dog panting
as if it were hot outside.
Necessary air.

I baked on Saturday. 
Which is kind of unusual, but can you blame me?

Haiku 17
4/17/2010

Green pears and chocolate 
were born to be together.
The chef laughs out loud.

On Friday I was not my desk because I was in San Antonio for the Texas Library Association Convention.
So many book-lovers all in one place, such good jujee.

I was there to see All the World take its place on the Texas 2×2 list (which names the 20 best books of the year for children from 2-years-old through 2nd grade) and to sign a whole heap of them for gracious librarians. Honestly, my luck just continues to astound me.

I also had lunch with the very wonderful Andrea Welch from Beach Lane Books.

Plus, I got to see/hug so many old and new friends, like Cynthia Leitich Smith and Greg Leitich Smith, April Lurie, Jessica Anderson and PJ Hoover, Chris Barton, Jennifer Ziegler and Bethany Hegedus, K.A. Holt, Lisa Railsback, Francisco X. Stork, Ruth McNally Barshaw and Laura Salas. And I’m pretty sure I’m forgetting someone.

It’s funny. When I head into something like the TLA Conference, I’m pretty sure that seeing all those folk is going to be overwhelming. I get scared/nervous/shy/catatonic. And then I go anyway, and everyone ends up being so crazy-nice, and I end up feeling so at home. Remind me of that next time I freak out pre-event, wouldja?

I drove home Friday afternoon as the rain dried up and the wildflowers glowed and I felt all full-up.
I really did…

Haiku 16
4/16/2010

Water sliding off
the thick umbrellaed branches;
rain redirected.