The neighbor lady came to Dell’s door
on summer’s hottest day.
Old Dell greeted her –
Come on inside and cool off.
He led her to the cellar
showed her the barrel of Dandelion Wine
gave her a glass.
It was the coldest, sweetest tasting thing
she’d ever had on her tongue
and as they sat in the parlor and talked –
Old Dell, his wife, and this neighbor lady –
that cold stuff in the cellar
kept calling them
to retrieve more tasty nectar
until, unable to stand without staggering,
the neighbor lady said she had to get home,
her husband would be expecting dinner.
Old Dell offered to drive her the half mile
but she declined
saying she needed the air.
Sixty years later
when she no longer requires Dandelion Wine
she recalls that far gone day
when, wobbling home across the across the pasture
and stopped to pick more Dandelions.
The Gardener Talks about the Gardener
“My young gardener comes weekly
to spread mulch,
clean up winter’s mess.
He bends easily, shoveling, filling,
the large wheel barrow.
The dirt flies when he comes to work, I tell you.
Time was, I could shovel all day
and go to bed at night
thinking about digging some more in the morning.
(Now my back rebels when I pick up a trowel,
and I rejoice when I can stop
to sit after weeding a bit.)
I listen to his stories,
trying to keep up with his
quick, graceful movements
but, really, I’m hoping it’s close to lunch
or even quitting time.
One more load of weeds and you’ll
have to wheel me back to the shed.
But we do have a commonality this young gardener and me.
We both have grubby hands and fingernails,
our pants are stained with earth and grass,
and we have a deep love for what we have accomplished,
for how peaceful the shade garden is,
how the mulch adds a coolness to the rock garden,
and how we work so well together as a team
the young gardener and me, an aging woman.”
Some believe that when a soul passes
it’s leaving arouses the air
dragging the clouds to new places
and the snow to unknown meadows and forests.
We can’t catch the wind
nor can we follow it closely
or even discern it’s path.
But we can feel it’s movement on our cheeks
and in our hair
as it glides around us and rouses our skin.
We can’t see the breeze that shakes the house
or rattles the chimes
But I like to think it is the movement of Spirit
dancing in the world.
And we can know that it is this windy frolic of Spirit
that brings Life to the Earth
and Breath to our days.