In This Sanctuary

The oboist plays the prelude.

Her slow, solemn, solo widens

a crack in my broken heart.

Beneath lies a lava lake of sadness.

It is sliced open with a sharp pain from

 memories of thirty years in this Sanctuary:

My children's growth til graduation,

Wednesdays and Sundays in choir,

My first solo,

My in-laws' memorials,

My husband's memorial,

My children's baptisms,

My baptism.

In this Sanctuary,

 I found my faith,

and my own belovedness.

Unable to sing,

 I sit in a chair and listen.

My heart is splayed like a carcass for the grill.It's invisible ink- blood spurts on the church walls,

 and runs down unseen pooling on the floor.

When I walk, it covers the bottom of my shoes.My foot slides, as I grasp for the swaying tether to my faith;

while  the truth of my belovedness,

slips in and out of my searching hand.

I Sit in my Closet

In my pajamas, my arms bare and cooling,

I search for warmth in the vest.

The piled lining on my back

radiates my heat back to me.

I hold the worn duck fabric close, tight around me,

and imagine the scent of him.

The vest has weathered wind and cold Alaskan mornings,

 Oregon rainy afternoons.

endured spills of coffee on early morning fishing and hunting trips,

absorbed smoke from late evening campfires.

 I press the softness to my heart,

as I squeeze the hope out of the morning, the hope out of the day.

 Like squeezing the sweetness in the juice,

 from the grapes in my kitchen sink.

Evolution of the Garden

In Montana, we grew lettuce next to an alley.

In California, we planted peas in a barren side yard.

 In Alaska, we potted 30, 12- feet- tall plants for seven green tomatoes.

In Oregon, I and my five- year-old cleared weeds in a dog pen for two tomato plants.

Then  my husband built a fenced  garden.

and yearly  hauled and spread mint hay.

As our children grew gardens grew rich and green.

When he was sick, weeds used the garden.

A year after he was gone, others used the garden.

 I rebuilt an accessible garden.

After two more years sharing,

and sporadic use during the virus.

I reclaimed this garden as my own.

I hired helpers.

A horticulture student lasted three weeks,

 a high school student lasted two days.

Today with  weighted foot

 I push my walker through gravel,

 and leave ruts around raised beds

 of tomatoes, basil, and beets.

Last night a creek flowed

in the gravel between  beds

from a broken irrigation fitting.

Turned off, the parched vegetables wilted.

I tug and fight a hose to stretch it.

and avoid cucumbers  overflowing onto the path

The hose reaches its limit, just close enough.

Engaging my brakes, I turn, keep my balance,

sit on the seat, and spray the strawberries.

Yesterday's 95 degree heat dried

this heavy clay soil in cracks.

Among leaves with browned edges,

I spy one beautiful little berry.

It is small and bright red and

tastes so sweet -  this precious, precious strawberry.