HARRIET PASCA-ORTGIES

Morning Glories

         (i)
I have become an inspector
of vines, fingering trellis,
checking for hints or clues.
A test of patience,
not a bloom the whole summer —
I question location, soil, how much
water to prevent wilting.

Finally —
October brings unexpected
joy as spiral buds unfold
in azure trumpets;
their sticky white throats
attract bees as one by one
petals stretch under the sun.

Each stem, a pitchfork of buds,
ready to pierce through
heart-shaped leaves, tendrils
curling over, weaving
a twelve foot tapestry
of star-faced blossoms.

Each sky-blue jewel only lasts
a day — enough to slake the longing.
At the kitchen window I watch,
Consider the weather, soil,
how to flower fully.

Transplants

By the back fence,
plants that remember
being pulled from wide beds
of soil, crammed into plastic containers
like toes pinched
into shoes a size too small,
must be removed
from pots.

Brutal — how we hack
grass and weeds to clear
ground for these neglected
perennials. The real challenge
is uncurling tightly wound roots:
we force, press shovel point down,
wiggle until
they are freed
without much damage.
We tamp earth, water, encourage
growth.

A few days of sun, roots spread,
Reach boldly into new soil,
as we, too, shake free
of our enclosures,
push upwards to the light.

What Is Given

(for Said Dini)

Breakfast is a Persian landscape,
just-picked cucumbers,
peppers, tomatoes,
almonds, feta cheese —
green mounds of sabzi.

Our host invites each guest
to share stories —
dust and determination —
ancestors who followed
where the journey led.

Sipping tea, we savor
connections,
partake of spirit.
pass baskets of warm bread
and prized peach jam.

Outside the porch
the peach tree’s abundance
foretells the pleasure
of the harvest —
how the service of
slicing, stirring,
simmering ingredients
in the hot August kitchen
produces more
than just a delicious preserve.

Sampling the ambrosial spread,
our tongues are enraptured.

A parting gift of peach jam is given
to carry home
though your love travels
so much further —
nourishes
even after
the jar is empty.

What We Need to Remember

Each day is carefully listed:
appointments, paperwork,
restocking pantry, doing
laundry, taking out garbage,
sending the birthday card.

Will I find time to welcome the universe?
As I go about garden chores,
I am greeted by my grandson.
He holds questions with the toothy grip
of a puppy. I want to finish
quickly, but agree to let his six-year-old
hands help water the plants.

He asks to be sprayed so I retake hose,
mist high his orange hair.
A shower of blessings —
he disappears inside, only to return
naked, giggling and jumping into
the now of nows.

Sibling Meditation

As you turn the soil in the dry
palms of your hand
I stir the roots of my garden,
digging deep to loosen earth.
Each in our separate
plot, we pause —
sensing, as a spider does,
when silken filament is blown
by the afternoon,
the holiness of chance
as our different paths come together
in the same sifted dust
this afternoon.

How I wish I could tell you all I know of my garden.
How I wish I could know yours.

Perhaps it is enough
we fill each other’s woven basket
with our summer’s work?

Harriet Pasca-Ortgies