Hyssop, Delphinium, Cornflower, Thyme

A recitation, this liturgy

Of living things, with

Hands deep in the earth.

Their bitterness and sweetness,

Tap roots and green life

Filled with a constant pulse.

Saints’ bones buried

In homage, a rhythm

Of returning—

Hyssop, Delphinium,

Cornflower, Thyme

The oaks all died,

July lighting a lacework

Canopy of naked limbs.

No liturgy, no incantation,

No resurrection for these

Stoic prophets in dusty shoes,

Standing sentinel above

White pine, sassafras,

and last year’s acorns.

Hyssop, Delphinium,

Cornflower, Thyme

Tender leaves on tiny plants,

Confident, waving energetically,

Their strength a mystery,

Sitting in the strange joy of grief

That is memory holding

To the past. What of the oaks—

Old relics to be worried over.

What of the oaks—we thought

They would never die.

Hyssop, Delphinium,

Cornflower, Thyme

Blue towers bending

Over a toddler’s head, one

Who will never remember those trees.

But we are here—

Cornflower twisted with thyme,

A playful crown to adorn

The morning of life, to be saved,

Pressed, and rediscovered

On an unknown day.

Hyssop, Delphinium,

Cornflower, Thyme

It is said flowers

Have their meanings,

As, too, do the oaks.

What do we know

Of the first blooming, or leaf?

Enough for memory to fill

With myriad seeds, reminders

That fruit will bear until here

Is long forgotten.

Hyssop, Delphinium,

Cornflower, Thyme

These oaks, and flowers,

Take their root where once

Foundations stood, where we will be

No more than weakened bone

To feed their roots.

Look here, little one, and old

Alike, the tiny shoots,

The telltale leaves of

A whole new past beginning.

The featured image is courtesy of Sam Keyes and used with his gracious permission for Cultivating.

Susan Mulder

Susan Mulder finds herself on a journey to find peace with herself and in the world. Writing poetry is a way she challenges herself after laying down her previous career/s to pursue God’s path for her future. With a terminal degree in fine art in painting, she has held several positions in what she calls her ‘old life’. Though Mulder continues to paint and exhibit and is the author of a poetry collection, No Ordinary Time, she finds her deepest expression (and joy) in writing and within the eyes of her grandchildren.