I could eat this poem, "The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog"

by Alicia Suskin Ostriker all day.

verdant

I grew up along the Whetstone Brook, named for the flat stones traditionally used to sharpen knives and blades that line its banks. Today I walked down through the woods below our house to the section of mossy, dappled, verdant, and stone-flecked bank where I spent many hours of my childhood and later, adolescence. I poked and prodded, sat and listened, and felt the intoxication of my adolescent hormonal cocktail return; all the vividness, tenderness, presence, sensitivity, and flair for drama that those years contain has come back to me in this liminal, pre-birth state of being. Here's to savoring every minute of it.

liminal

liminal 

1 of or relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.
2 occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

francesca woodman

If I were in New York City I would go see the photos of Francesca Woodman at the Guggenheim...

enhabiten

My friend Liane Tyrrel of enhabiten posted some shots of our house and an interview with yours truly at her blog. While there, make sure you check out her beautiful hand-dyed textiles, like this one:

When? A hymnal I sing. A poem I walk. Today? and Today? and Or will it be tomorrow? Meanwhile the lilacs have opened. Barefoot, I stick my nose into their heady splendor. Wet nose. Wet feet. Mama, from the screen door. What are you doing?  And, Mama, wait, I want to come with you.  

Of course! Of course you can come with me, daughter of mine! Everywhere. Everything. Except tomorrow, or will it be today? When that burrowing happens, that twice-in-a-lifetime journey into some dark, wildflower ether, the only route through which new life can come. That solo-journ, which takes no partners. Not even you, splendor-child. Not even you, melon-faced heart of mine. But I’ll be singing you songs. The whole way. I’ll be the harp-zither and the flute and the drum. The fife and the bird and the crimson horn. And I’ll be making my way back up that river to you. Because of you. Towards you. And when I return? I’ll have broken, split, fledged, and be carrying a radical, soft-beating gift in arms.

Things to do while waiting for child: Read poetry. Do laundry. Cut toenails. Drink tea. Go for walk. Pluck wildflowers. Stare at said wildflowers. Look up said wildflowers in wildflower book and wonder, will you remember the names of those very wildflowers tomorrow? Scrub counters. Pick up books and set them down. Make tea. Sit on stone step in sunshine and try to identify birdsongs. Identify very few. Wonder when you will ever learn birdsongs, and how. Think about your downy limbed daughter and smile with wonder. Pick at dry skin on ankles and toes. Wonder if you will ever, in your life, get a pedicure. Walk to your mother’s fields to pull witch grass and weeds. Feel your fingernails pulse with dirt. Grow tired and pitch yourself back in the sun. Remember you need water. Walk home for water. Feast on cheese and condiments. Think about cleaning the refrigerator. If the baby comes today, will someone else clean it for you? Pick up that book again. Fall asleep on the couch. Wake to the ring of the telephone in confluence with the buzz of the refrigerator. Don’t pick up the phone. Listen to your daughter’s robust voice singing the message. Smile with wonder. Wonder who’s inside you. Go back outside to the stone step. Watch a jay chase a crow through the hemlocks downhill. Stare at the near-budding lilacs, the ripe tip of the not-yet-opened tulip. Smell your husband on you. Talk to yourself. Or is it to your baby? Think about that pint of ice cream in the freezer.  Pine for weeds to pull closer to home. Wish you had a farm so you could be distracted: you’d like to be on hands and knees in the garden when your water breaks, like farmwomen of the forties. Remember the laundry. Hang it on the line. Sit in a chair in the sunshine and watch it blow. Wonder: today, or two weeks from now? Put your hand where your child is kicking. Say, hi there. And, who are you? Look at the clock. Be grateful it’s almost time to pick your daughter up from school. Think how much you miss her. Take last sip of cold tea. Put unread book inside. Wonder what you’ll cook for dinner. Stare at your feet. Stare for a good while at the slow-billowing clouds before you climb into the car and get on with your day.