Growing a Garden Poem

Paris Blue, Rose Red, Napels Yellow - colors that stir something in me with just their names. Three blues are first to be laid out. Then four reds, yellows, purples, violets, and greens follow, filling up my palette. Dipping a brush in turpentine and loading it with color, a poem begins to form on the white canvas.

Unwritten, I begin with thoughts from my heart and my head. I will it to reveal itself to me. A landscape, a nude, a window... A lone figure is taking shape from running colors. Red, flowing into the green as violet merges with other fading reds. The figure of a woman in a print skirt? I push it aside with a stroke of my brush and a strange flower appears.

The poem is now my garden. Fading from my thoughts, the figure waits for me as I let more flowers come forward. For now, chaos is everywhere, design and composition are set aside. Later, more confident in where I am headed and how I will get there, I set this canvas aside and, on a small panel, I introduce myself again to the lady in the print skirt. For the next month I grow my garden poem, while introducing myself to young ladies that pass by.     

Evenings with Grandpa

      Sweet smoke from Grandpa's pipe drifted through the tomatoes as stories of his horses filled my head. Grandpa Matt delivered ice to people when ice boxes were the refrigerators of the day. He liked to say he delivered road apples to people for gardens. With the orange sun setting behind the lilacs, he enjoyed smoking his pipe and telling me about the horses he knew. With his pocket knife and a flat stone he’d sharpened my pencils to a pinpoint. 

The sight of tomato caterpillars would interrupt his stories. Directing me to pick them off our tomato plants - and to toss them over the fence into Mrs. Mattew's garden. “A gift of a butterfly,” he would say. 

Watching the days end with my Grandfather were quiet. Evening birds were looking for beds to sleep in, baby bunnies were sneaking under the chickenwire fence to get to the Swiss chard. Bats, leaving attics, darted about and Mom would call to see if anyone was interested in the last pieces of apple crisp. She would come out with two slices and a cup of strong black coffee. Chasing the baby bunny away, Mom gave us a look and told us the time. 

Grandpa and I sat quietly, watching the baby bunny return to nibble on Swiss chard again. Voices would rise in the distance of kids getting called in, and dogs answering those calls. Aurora, my town, was going to bed. Aunt Kay called to Grandpa that it was time to go home too. His pipe sits in an ashtray in my studio now reminding me of night skies and those stories of Nellie, his last horse, and women gathering up Nellie's road apples.