#acrostic — Public Fediverse posts

praying for rain

Perhaps the seedlings were better off inside,

Really. She's never sure what's best for them,

All down the years trying peat pots, blocks,

Yanking down flats from storage, penciling markers,

Ingratiating herself with baked soils,

Now trying perlite, vermiculite, moss,

Getting out lamps and heaters, rotating flats,



Fighting intruding snails, mice and rats

Or even knotweed, and bindweed

Running its tendrils up through brick.



Right now, she wishes she hadn't hurried.

All her helpless babies in cracked clay!

If it doesn't rain tonight, she tells herself,

Never again shall I call April May.

waiting for the rain to stop

While watching forests comb those wet bellies,

All grey and louring, of the heartless clouds,

I wondered how the heavy earth breathes

Thus more than dampened, more than drowned

In so much rain. The very snails could gasp,

Nudging toward such daylight as they might,

Grudged them by the endless drops, dropping.



Fear for my crops, standing in chill pools

Or bent, prostrated, shambled, lying left and

Right, I feel, yet not enough to go and see.



There are tree branches, if I go, ready to pull

Hair, poke eyes, and shower me to my skin,

Every direction, along each path and bed.



Running streamlets ease a darkening land

All river-bound, discovering the slightest slope,

Inland being anathema to them,

No place like home, their wide and welcoming sea.



There all streams meet, mingle, and play.

Ocean the lowest place, where rain may end in



Stillness some times, or leap about, yet bounded.

There it may stop awhile, then one day mist forth

Over the waves and shores, plains and mountains

Putting forth life and death again, a cycle.



-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #dyptich #seasons #weather #drought #climate #homesteading #gardening

praying for rain

Perhaps the seedlings were better off inside,

Really. She's never sure what's best for them,

All down the years trying peat pots, blocks,

Yanking down flats from storage, penciling markers,

Ingratiating herself with baked soils,

Now trying perlite, vermiculite, moss,

Getting out lamps and heaters, rotating flats,



Fighting intruding snails, mice and rats

Or even knotweed, and bindweed

Running its tendrils up through brick.



Right now, she wishes she hadn't hurried.

All her helpless babies in cracked clay!

If it doesn't rain tonight, she tells herself,

Never again shall I call April May.

waiting for the rain to stop

While watching forests comb those wet bellies,

All grey and louring, of the heartless clouds,

I wondered how the heavy earth breathes

Thus more than dampened, more than drowned

In so much rain. The very snails could gasp,

Nudging toward such daylight as they might,

Grudged them by the endless drops, dropping.



Fear for my crops, standing in chill pools

Or bent, prostrated, shambled, lying left and

Right, I feel, yet not enough to go and see.



There are tree branches, if I go, ready to pull

Hair, poke eyes, and shower me to my skin,

Every direction, along each path and bed.



Running streamlets ease a darkening land

All river-bound, discovering the slightest slope,

Inland being anathema to them,

No place like home, their wide and welcoming sea.



There all streams meet, mingle, and play.

Ocean the lowest place, where rain may end in



Stillness some times, or leap about, yet bounded.

There it may stop awhile, then one day mist forth

Over the waves and shores, plains and mountains

Putting forth life and death again, a cycle.



-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #dyptich #seasons #weather #drought #climate #homesteading #gardening

she knows

She knows the weeds will win. Sometimes, at night,

Hearing them grow in her dreams, she'll wake, grasp

Even in her two hands, a phantom thistle, or



Knotweed, errant blackberry, or teasel.

Now not able to turn and sleep, she'll rise, throw

On her robe, and step out into night;

Walking the way the slim moon shows her,

She throws aside her garden gate and listens.



There might be corn and tomatoes chatting,

Having about as much to say as farmed things.

Even a whisper among the kales and chard --



Whatever such things say. Beyond are beds

Ensnarled in dock, barnyardgrass, bindweed,

Everlasting buttercup crowns.

Dire straits; but there's no sound there.

She knows they're biding their time,



Watching for her sudden return, sickle

In hand, fire in eye, seed packets in mind.

Level them, they fear she means to, or

Leave roots drying in summer sun.



Well, that's tomorrow. She turns now; steps

Into her lightless house. She'll give this up

Not soon, yet knows how it must end.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #entropy

she knows

She knows the weeds will win. Sometimes, at night,

Hearing them grow in her dreams, she'll wake, grasp

Even in her two hands, a phantom thistle, or



Knotweed, errant blackberry, or teasel.

Now not able to turn and sleep, she'll rise, throw

On her robe, and step out into night;

Walking the way the slim moon shows her,

She throws aside her garden gate and listens.



There might be corn and tomatoes chatting,

Having about as much to say as farmed things.

Even a whisper among the kales and chard --



Whatever such things say. Beyond are beds

Ensnarled in dock, barnyardgrass, bindweed,

Everlasting buttercup crowns.

Dire straits; but there's no sound there.

She knows they're biding their time,



Watching for her sudden return, sickle

In hand, fire in eye, seed packets in mind.

Level them, they fear she means to, or

Leave roots drying in summer sun.



Well, that's tomorrow. She turns now; steps

Into her lightless house. She'll give this up

Not soon, yet knows how it must end.


-- shonin #poetry #acrostic #gardening #homesteading #entropy

what to do about trees

What to do about trees, for she had room:
Have an orchard. But isn't that thinking
About twenty years ahead? So she went
To the tool room for her spade in November;

Took that and four apple saplings down
Onto the flat by the road, and began. Years she

Did this, working up and around the rise
Of better ground. Pears, cherries, quince

Abounded, but the plums got blight, and had to
Be started over. She was too old to harvest
Or even get shade from nut trees, they're so slow;
Uncoupling crop from objective, she anyway set
Them out, along with the rest. Last, she

Thought of mulberries. The hens could have
Really used those. Oh, well. She ordered,
Even this late in life, and planted once more,
Even as those old hens looked on amazed:
Something to offer folks not yet alive.

-- shonin #poetry #gardening #orchard #acrostic #homesteading

what to do about trees

What to do about trees, for she had room:
Have an orchard. But isn't that thinking
About twenty years ahead? So she went
To the tool room for her spade in November;

Took that and four apple saplings down
Onto the flat by the road, and began. Years she

Did this, working up and around the rise
Of better ground. Pears, cherries, quince

Abounded, but the plums got blight, and had to
Be started over. She was too old to harvest
Or even get shade from nut trees, they're so slow;
Uncoupling crop from objective, she anyway set
Them out, along with the rest. Last, she

Thought of mulberries. The hens could have
Really used those. Oh, well. She ordered,
Even this late in life, and planted once more,
Even as those old hens looked on amazed:
Something to offer folks not yet alive.

-- shonin #poetry #gardening #orchard #acrostic #homesteading

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