There’s a place I love,

a particular patch of field

where the summery sound

of cicadas

are a soothing ballad for my ears

and the thick scent of fresh forest

is a tonic for my soul,

filling my lungs,

reviving my spirit.

I’ve been watching expectantly

all summer long.

Waiting for the fashionably late bloomer, ironweed.

She only comes when she comes.

All in good time.

Toward the end of every summer,

when most things

shrivel in the simmering sun,

the meadow gets out her indigo paint for an encore.

She brushes beautiful flowers

across a plain canvas of green.

Violet wildfire takes over the landscape, but not until late August.

I am getting closer.

I pass a single, isolated ironweed bloom on the way,

tickling my fancy

and wetting my appetite.

A majestic tiger swallowtail

lands peacefully

on the lone teaser bloom,

and rests his folded paper wings.

I pick up the pace,

ready to flood my vision

with blossoms.

I round the corner.

I cross the river over a bridge.

I look to my left,

and my spirit sinks.

The ironwood field

has been roughly mowed.

I will miss the performance this year.

Someone erased it just when it was reaching its full glory.

It was days, if not hours from the peak of breath-taking beauty.

Weary, wishing heart,

well-worn from waiting,

do not mow down your dreams.

The entire landscape

is about to change.

It does not matter in the slightest

that the others have already had their time to open

their shining faces to the sun.

Your own tight brown flower pods will one day unravel.

A blank canvas of green

will become a violet fire burning.

All in good time.

All in good time.

In a ditch by the lake

wildflowers and weeds

mingle together

coexisting, intertwining

sharply contrasting one another.

Dark cherry wooded brush

with little white thorns strong as nails,

protecting the self being its highest priority.

Wounding the flesh of anyone

threatening to come too close,

huddling in aggressive fear,

low to the ground, knife blades drawn.

Always on guard, ready to draw blood.

They inhale bitterness and exhale cruelty,

believing they are alone in the world

with no friends, only foes.

Thorns wait for the ax to fall

and obsessively wittle their wood

into weaponry.

Waving high above the thorns,

light and airy, is the Queen Anne’s Lace,

refusing to hold the weight of fear and revenge.

She knows, of course, that being beautiful

might mean being plucked out of the ground.

She knows the threatening thorns

are much better armored against the cold hard world.

In a ditch by the lake

wildflowers and weeds

mingle together

coexisting, intertwining

sharply contrasting one another.

Dark cherry wooded brush

with little white thorns strong as nails,

protecting the self being its highest priority.

Wounding the flesh of anyone

threatening to come too close,

huddling in aggressive fear,

low to the ground, knife blades drawn.

Always on guard, ready to draw blood.

They inhale bitterness and exhale cruelty,

believing they are alone in the world

with no friends, only foes.

Thorns wait for the ax to fall

and obsessively wittle their wood

into weaponry.

Daisy lions,

that’s what my daughter calls them.

She never passes by a field of white globes

without plucking

blowing them out on the wind

like candles on a birthday cake.

Seeds scatter like confetti.

The child within

finds no greater treasure than dandelions.

Running wild and free

to the unruliest patch of earth.

Soft, yellow fuzz flowers

as cheerful as sunshine

Sticky, cold spindly stems

gently peeled back by tiny hands

Curling like the ribbons we use to embellish balloons and gifts.

My son hands me a single yellow dandelion when he sees them.

A tender gesture of love,

He hands me his heart.

Daisy lions,

in many ways

a more lovely gift than a diamond ring.

Finding gifts in the ground

is a miracle

when you are a child with empty pockets.

And these lovelies,

only the commonest of weeds.

Close your eyes.

Make a wish.

Imagine a world

where even weeds are regarded with wonder,

where there is immense beauty

in the simplest things.

Now raise your eyelashes up to the sky

and blow out the candles.

There’s a place where the line between heaven and hell

is as thin as an old barb-wired fence.

As children we held one row over our heads

and between the two borders we slipped.

There’s a place where the graveyard lies next to the church

asleep on that old gravel road.

Until a pick-up truck comes and unsettles the dirt,

as if quietly waking the ghosts.

Those eerie old church bells sing a song so familiar

I hear them calling.

Their melody has followed me as long as I can remember

and still it haunts me.

The melancholy murmur of a sweet, ancient hymn

A longing, a whisper, a sigh

There are voices of sinners and saints on the wind

And there’s always more than meets the eye.

I was so young with a small bundle of pure sweetness in my lap.

Dark chocolate eyes, so happy, loving, jovial, kind in spirit.

Tufts of soft thick hair creating warm, velvety patches of softness to the touch.

I would come to know those soft places

as a source of comfort for my hand and my heart.

I have known you thirteen years.

I know exactly how the fur grows.

I know precisely how the tail wags.

I understand the gentle look in your brown eyes

and I feel the delight in your crooked-toothed smile.

How could I let myself grow so fond of you?

Once I left you for a few days

and when I returned, you would not leave my side.

You planted yourself at my feet

and kept turning your head around to look at me

as if to say, “I’m so glad you’re home”.

In many ways, sweet little soul, you have been home to me.

I’ve lived in five different places, but always with you.

I have grown into a woman, introduced you to my babies,

lived through the unthinkable and you have always been there,

loyal, faithful and true through it all.

The day before you started dying

Is etched in my memory like the most pleasant waking dream.

I woke up feeling like someone was watching me, waiting for me.

I felt like the most important person in the world to you and you loved me unconditionally.

I opened my eyes to your precious face, your excited sparkling eyes looking straight into mine.

Then your tail went wildly wagging with expectancy at the familiar sound of my voice.

As I got out of bed, you bounded down the hall like a puppy to your breakfast.

That afternoon you were smiling, you were happy,

we sat together out in the sunshine.

Did you know it would be your last day with me?

By the next day, most of the light was leaving your eyes.

You could not find the strength to even stand. You would not eat.

How is it that death can come on so suddenly?

A dear friend came to your bed to say goodbye.

Your tail thwacked on the ground in a friendly wag for the last time,

and the rest of you lay strangely still.

I carried you to the car, I patted your head on the dreaded drive.

I couldn’t believe what I was about to do.

I knew you were all used up, but that did not make it any easier.

Did you see my tears, did you feel my grief?

Can you possibly know how much I have loved you

and how terribly I am going to miss you?

How could I end the life of my best friend?

They came into the room and asked if I was ready.

My mouth said yes, but my heart said no.

I held all of you in my arms on that cold hard table.

I hugged you close to my chest, we became a mess of bone, fur and tears.

I told you that I loved you and did not want you to suffer,

hoping you would forgive me and understand somehow.

The warmth and sweetness of your pillow-like body comforted me

one last time as I said my tearful goodbye.

I did not want to let go of your soul or your soft furry frame,

so I held on to you tightly as you peacefully fell out of your earthly misery.

I held you for awhile after you were gone.

I stroked your motionless back, I sniffed your sweet-smelling head, still warm.

I didn’t want to leave you, but I had to.

Goodbye, dear friend.

I will love you and miss you always.

Thank you for the joy, the wags, the comfort, the love.