The Gardener who writes

My favorite pasttime lately is to keep the TV in the OFF position, sit at the computer and ramble around looking at and reading people's blogs. I am so enthralled with what makes others excited, bored, angry, interesting. And there are some interesting people around , let me tell you!

I found one Blog called Orangette and it is all about cooking and is beautifully presented, very artistic. I found Bill of the Birds (thanks Jan) and he is so birdly-wise it truly amazes me! And what a following that guy has! He didn't write for a day and began his blog apologizing to his audience! Imagine if I had a following that even noticed I didn't write in my blog!?!

Today I followed links from one guy who writes alot about LOST(the cultic TV show I watch weekly...)and discovered some theologically thought provoking sights I will return to. He is found at www.provokingconversation.wordpress.com and has become one I check periodically...His links led me to a poetry loving sight which led me to a poem-which is what I wanted to share here. Frankly, it's content is for a daughter or two of mine I believe would enjoy reading it, but why confine this gentleman's work to a mere email when the world is at our fingertips?

Here it is:
Stanley Kunitz died in 2006 when he was 100 years old.He was apparently an avid gardener and writer as well.I think this is part of a larger poem, but I am not sure-

Touch Me, from Collected Poems

Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it’s done.

So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.

Wasn't that grand? I sigh after reading it, waiting for the full impact to penetrate my being. There are men who are such romantics and so full of words that pour out from somehwere within them. I hope someday to meet such a man, a gentleman perhaps, tending his garden.