the dog dug up the roses I planted four weeks ago
he dug them up thrice
and scattered their shredded stems around the exactitude of the holes I dug
and when I stuck them back into the ground
I pricked my fingers three times for each tetchy vine I rooted
and forgot to water them for as many days
then the weatherman predicted a freeze
and of course it snowed
and then it froze more nights than the perforations on my fingers

yet today they bloom–
spirited green and bordered red
spreading their fast arms into the garden bed
reaching for the legs of the pergola
as if forgetting their birth and the days that followed

and seeing them now
I cannot help but know
how much like parenting it is
to plant a hearty rose

–KarenHansonPercy

Today I’m chasing color

a cursory fugitive through invisible towns,

snow blind and losing sight of the mountains

letting myself vanish

into backroads.

I stop for gas in a microscopic town

the friendliest in America, it’s undeniable

where I see only the restful eyes of an old man

readjusting his gloves to scrape the ice off my window.

The honeyed wrinkles of ladies inside

say that if he had any toes he can’t feel them.

They say there are some women who won’t fill up

unless he’s there

unsalaried, they say.

I give him a dollar

which he takes but doesn’t want to take.

 

Now I am the one paying it forward.

 

Today she broke my heart.

I knew it would happen–

the day she would come home to tell me

about the whispering

and the hurt feelings–

the day when all you can do is hold her

and let the tears fall

wishing she knew what I know about frivolity

and how beautiful she is

and how the girl who hurt her is beautiful too.

Two days ago, I watched her smile

when we searched through books on the computer.

She’s been dreaming of horses

and so we ordered a book to match her dreams.

And today, when the tears stopped and she stood up straight again,

I watched her from the window

fly through the snow that clung to her trail of hair

across the yard rousing the birds from their trees

towards the mailbox

and return moments later

with a grin as big as the horse on the cover of her new book

and then back into the arms of our house again,

to read.

We are sitting in Church on Christmas Eve,

the choir has begun its adagio hum of Silent Night.

Outside we hear faint sounds

of the coming and going of cars

on the one main road that goes through town.

There used to be three dove prints

perfectly greased on the window to the pulpit’s side–

broad wingspans, thinking they could fly through;

now the cold has frosted them over

and oversized snowflakes fall to herald their loss.

They are angels now,

the voices.

My youngest son grips the plastic cup and candle within—

dancing eyes transfixed by the flame.

Wax drips into something permanent,

and trying hard to steady his hand

he tilts the flame to catch in mine

thus we go down the line, to the giant eyes of my middle child; the dreaming ones of my eldest.

One by one the candles light,

the voices fade

and snow cases the ground outside.

She’s supposed to work on her spelling tonight

I really should make her do that–

but we’re listening to O’ Holy Night

more than a month before Christmas.

I shouldn’t have wiped my eyes and turned away when she

lifted her voice and dramatically raised her hands to the kitchen ceiling

(not knowing that was the moment there would be no homework).

The boys have gone to their wrestling

and so we listen to Jewel;

her stuffed bears (too many to name)

are forming a circle around the kitchen table.

She whispers their words to each other

so that I cannot and do not want to hear.

She fidgets to intermingle their arms

let the phone ring

do not answer the door

we insufferably yell the lyrics and laugh,

yes–

her homework can wait.

Over the sound of the oven cooling,

and the music,

and the smells of dinner clinging to our clothes

we have found something in the kitchen

far more important.

All day I’ve watched the tractor from the center of my eyes.

She paces the field like a swimmer

and stays in her lane while taking much time to cross me again.

She sprays dirt into the waves of sun

gone too soon under the watery surface of dusk.

Her breathing stops with a decrescendo;

hitting the wall because no earth is moved after dark

(and so my connectivity to our greater world is paused).

I’ve never loved a farmer,

but I do love how his dirt spreads like sand,

deep brown and full-bodied in the grass.

I love his faith spelled in russet Braille

and that his boredom must be spurred by many things

save straight lines and loam–

not to mention the simple fact,

that he and his tractor are the only ones

who keep coming up for air.