Gardening (day 2625)

Gardening is for lovers
It is not for somebody who hates the world,
Cant stand to wait
Intermingling with chaos
In a fabric of life.
Gardening is for those who see the world,
Smell the sun,
Walk around with silent footsteps
To not scare the birds
Who sing so beautifully
For worms beneath the earth.
Gardening is for those who feel the wind,
A sweet summer lustre
Mixed with tobacco falsettos
Amongst little poplars.
Gardening is for the lovers
Who sit down side by side
And smile amidst sunflowers and cabbage
Like the silty loam soil
Made them to be.

Bill Xavier Walters (day 2083)

You know, last night
I was walking through the briar patch
Thick as a skunks tail it was
And there before me was a glowing patch
Of juniper berries
I kid you not!
Juniper berries!
So I dug and I tugged
And I squeezed and I slid
I bent and I stretched
Until I made it through that prickly ol patch
And beheld those junipers
And boy did they taste good!
Sure is a change to the worms and beetles
And fiddleheads I’ve been finding
I sat right down and ate each juniper berry
One by one, plucked off the branch
Until they were all gone
And as I dug and tugged
And squeezed and slid
And bent and stretched my way out of there
Guess if I had a smile on my face or not?

Moon at Midnight – Part I (day 1975)

There was no moon at midnight
And my road was clambering on
I saw what appeared to be shadows
But from what direction I could not see the source
Nor could I understand their movement
For my breath was beating strongly
Inside my mind that couldn’t sit still.

They say whenever you’re lonely
To hug a tree in the woods,
That everything will be better
Once you listen to the wind through leaves.
But my footsteps weren’t taking me there
My trees were full of eyes
That growled when I got too close
My fire had died down to a whisper
Which danced away upon every breath
That beat so wildly inside.

I tried turning my back to the fire
So I could let my eyes adjust to darkness
Cold dampness swept into my chest
That left my fingers clinching at the dirt
I sat cross-legged on ash
That was surely trying to make it’s way
Up the inside of my leg
Like slowly crawling worms
With no direction home.
My fingers felt like dust
Long gone into a night with no end.

Slowly my eyes began to make out a hue of indigo
Through the trees that crept ever closer
With a faint scent of a silhouette
That began to sing me a song
Reminding me of Joan Baez singing acapella
Which always led me to Bob Dylan
And one of his nearly alarming harmonica solos.
Stars began to blink at me
Through gusting fog that sped
As fast as the dying harmonica sounds.

I could begin to see markings
Upon the bark of the nearest Douglas Fir trees
Bark so thick that my hands impulsively
Rubbed each other
Acutely feeling dusty skin on the back of my hands
As life began to seep back into them,
Shocked one too many times
From the dark night that lay behind.

I pulled my wool blanket closer
Remembering I am a warrior
I am made of two hard feet
That carry me on through a winding
Needle covered path
Weaving past lagoons and over boulders
Over roots and upon grass
Sometimes lost and always home
And rusty feathers settled beside me
Wishing me goodnight, so I fell asleep.

part II

20160418-morel-hunting-port-renfrew-bc-canada-ned-tobin-19

Remain Calm (day 1333)

In the end of all of it I had a reason.
There were two dots crossed off a long list of imaginations
And the cowboy had everything left to lose should it fail.

But that wasn’t the event there that day, you see,
A long riflesman came staggering in as the town watched
Thinking to themselves about a memory they all-to-quickly refused to listen to.

I couldn’t help but think that I was an envelope,
A whisper sealed away awaiting some sort of lucky ticket holder.
My eyes remained calm as time’s length pushed on.

Crimson was the colour of noon’s high sun.
Picking pockets like a Bazaar thief in Catholic quarters;
The city clinched tighter.

There once was an island inside of my dreams,
Floating with unseen amounts of impossibilities.
I was homesick. I wasn’t allowed to be there anymore.

So for now they sang, in cool shade of a willow tree.
And a stable meant for their local butcher
Fed the gatherers, who all at once came.

Dust kicked up my hallow heart’s worms and sheered into the edge;
At once I was offered fine takings
And imagined I was an elder.

A Horticulturalists Dream (day 1161)

Summer air and little drops
That puddle jump night to sleep.
From every lair come out great worms
Slithering through fresh mud.
Slugs depart on epic journeys
Across deep dark blacktop oceans.
And as all things growing
Most desire
Freshness from great rains,
Morning brings what can be called
A horticulturalists most desirable dream.