The Seven Of
Pentacles
Under a sky the
color of pea soup
she is looking at her work growing away there
actively,
thickly like grapevines or pole beans
as things grow in the real world,
slowly enough.
If you tend them properly, if you mulch, if you water,
if
you provide birds that eat insects a home and winter food,
if the sun shines
and you pick off caterpillars,
if the praying mantis comes and the ladybugs
and the bees,
then the plants flourish, but at their own internal
clock.
Connections are made slowly,
sometimes they grow underground.
You cannot tell always by looking what is
happening.
More than half the tree is spread out in the soil under your
feet.
Penetrate quietly as the earthworm that blows no trumpet.
Fight
persistently as the creeper that brings down the tree.
Spread like the squash
plant that overruns the garden.
Gnaw in the dark and use the sun to make
sugar.
Weave real connections,
create real nodes, build real houses.
Live a life you can endure: Make love
that is loving.
Keep tangling and interweaving and taking more in,
a
thicket and bramble wilderness to the outside but to us
interconnected with
rabbit runs and burrows and lairs.
Live as if you liked
yourself, and it may happen:
reach out, keep reaching out, keep bringing
in.
This is how we are going to live for a long time: not always,
for
every gardener knows that after the digging, after
the planting,
after the
long season of tending and growth, the harvest comes.
~ Marge Piercy
~
(In Praise of Fertile Land,
edited by Claudia Mauro)
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