Storms are greening the pohutukawas.

Nearby dogs howl into the wind.

Dad said grasses lasted longer tempered by fire.

Strong winds like fires consume things,

rip and tear until there's nothing whole there.

 

This is where I stop for a moment,

to watch as a small bird blown into 

a small tree frees itself

just as two gulls swoop to snatch it.

 

Monocultures -

fish

eggs

cereals

fruit.

Historically,

monocrops are

cyclically

ascendant,

grown not 

to feed you,

or for the poor,

but for more power.

It is possible

the idea of one

dominant food

has inherently 

destructed

too many

cultures

to count.

You read 

we feed millions now

on

12 species of plants,

5 species of animals.

 

 

 

 

I slept 4 hours

but found

paper transparent 

a clear fountain

and rag

milled

matte that 

give text and image 

a life

process (print 1)

 insipid

forgotten

in the craft of

but not jejune

or yes, perhaps

I wanted watery and weak, washed out

reading 

insubstantial

rather than 

strong

because

all along

I knew

layers

need to leak through

color (dawn)

remember east light

at

eight in the morning

an over awning of light

not bright still moonlit north

goes forth into day

as payne's grey

and hansa

This week I have tried to give myself the gift of time without doing, time to strengthen those things and thoughts not yet ready to leave me. 

It's a challenge to think without a stated purpose. Daydreaming streams. Letting go of the inner prose and watching new words slip through the brain's net. This a nexus I need.

If I want a sense of forward, I can return to learning languages. I literally need them to store more, as I seek or retrieve new  words

_____________________________________________

 

The morning fog has helped me understand land.

I fret over garden growth, giving plants places to thrive. I've got to get more clay pots, breathable skin for new beginnings.

_________________________________________________

 

Some days I move from desk to terrace like a sonambulist,  other days  I stay with words like a hungry  hunting bird. 

The next step is to let my life leak into more of my fiction.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Rosemary leaves spotted yellow

tell all in plangency

as in too a harp of dark woad

disappearing

into the sea 

near you

is a niche and cranny fortune

your love of

salt air may save save you

as the trees burn.

wildlife

 I kept the bedroom light on

a few extra hours

because of the lizard in the kitchen

not the

centipede in the sala

or the spider in the studio 

I will not kill them

_______________________________________________

they are birds heard 

but not seen

swift

gull 

jay

and

away to the west 

a kestrel

its wings released from the fog

____________________________________________________

wildlife in gaia -

the binturong bundled,

with introductions of

mongoose

genet

infertile polecats

eyes asleep

know now

the blows that

broke the boughs

that brought them here

________________________________________________________________

as

summer

leaves

fall

as

each

one

exhausted

cold

creeps 

into

my 

sleep

plant medicine 1

Every new life brought in draws attention. 

The purpling rosemary requires nursing, calm, a shadow to recover in. I wash dirt and mould from its boughs and branches. I disinfect cuts, clear webs and egg sacs, pluck, caress, water gently. Overnight I see the maroon needles lifting at their roots to green.  This is the work of hours, of love and shadows.

I don't know if the maple will survive the winter. I've trimmed and transplanted it into clay, added better soil, cooed over a single new shoot.  I've read maple messages from Murcia and California. These have made me optimistic. I am going to ensure this tiny acer,  bald and twiggy, has her chance to thrive.

Roots of scalded pohutukawa seek the surface after too many small waterings. Anxiety does grow, you know, and here a tree has caught my nerve and swerved upward to accept it. Now the work of mulch and stones! The need to leave the tree alone!

The mint on the terrace is a wayward child, dropping leaves like stolen buns, preferring the independence of clear water to damp soil. I lesson it as it lessons me. We each prepare to let the other go.  Yet I know mint would love it here if we gave each other a chance.

 

 

written from what you know 

have experienced

use tthose forms for the next stories

days without words

or with too many

 

I long for

one word, a brush of color, a small sung note

 

 

the sweet rightness of one

 

------------------------------------------------------------

one hundred refusals

nothing chocolate about rejection

 

_________________________________________

 

minhas vizinhas -

Portuguese women

who in

middle-age

have become

tree trunks with shoes

their bared neccessities

give me the blues

 

they grunt uphill

dodder down steep stairs 

bags full of meat and gossip

 

 _______________________________________ 

 

play fugues and arias

sip tea

 

 

two harriers

(falção) 

hovering

upwind from

a dead gutted cat

or there

where a 

pigeon's body

 plumped

from being shook

lies near

toadflax, fleabane, 

umbrella milkwort 

along this carnage path

one thought I can't get past -

it was an owl.

critical mass

 1

In her envy of space, light, 

lies

an absence of gratitude.

2

She mocks my towels

for lack of

luxury.

3

He left a half year silence,

returned, 

now half concerned 

he'd hurt her. 

He had.

4

They

told her to grow up.

She grew them out of

her life.

5

We are hyphenating ourselves to death. 

6

There are many senhora and senhoras

but very few samas here.

7

 

 

 

 

 

Rhynchophorus ferrugineus Palm Tree Weevil (invasive)

Yesterday,

this visitor,

a weevil that

destroys palms,

landed on my terrace.

With no qualms,

I handed her back to the sky.

Would I have

been so kind

if had known?