1. |
Prelude (dig a hole)
03:27
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2. |
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I remember there were flowers:
A garden, where daisies grew like wind,
and irises shone like purple moonbeams.
Dandelions sprouted around a gopher hole,
And an apple tree bore fruit
That was sweeter than ice cream,
And thicker than memories, and sour cream.
The raspberries floated across the bushes
As if they did not care whether or not they were picked.
I wish I could float like they do.
I wish I could float like the hummingbirds do,
With wings of jade and amber,
Crystalline crumbs, dusty on the garden walls,
Next to a Japanese maple.
The water from the hose is still sweet;
Mixed with the crispness of the fan inside the house,
The mice came out for peanut butter,
And I ran out for freezies,
Watermelons, blueberries and red honeysuckles,
Chickens and hens, geometrically opening
Tiny wings, just for me
And I still remember: there were flowers,
Ivy coating the garden wall.
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3. |
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4. |
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I used to sit in the apple tree.
Its branches bent and groaned beneath my weight,
But never broke.
The fruit was sweet,
But the air was sweeter: the summer breezes
Blessed my skin,
Making my pores hum with delight and pleasure.
Such an awakening,
From such simplicity,
Such a gasp from deep inside.
I used to sit on the dock,
With the boards beneath me aged,
Cracked and weathered, and
Smooth to the touch.
The air was sweet, but their voice was sweeter.
The night was crisp upon our faces,
The forest surrounding and sweeping us.
What a kiss we shared!
Such an awakening.
In both the forest and myself,
leaves rustled,
birds hummed,
and I shook.
I used to sit on the couch, in my backyard, gopher holes
Dotting the lawn.
There was smoke in the air,
And sleep in my hair.
Their voice was sweet,
But the pain was sweeter,
Our drinks were crisp and cool in our mouths,
The bed sheets were soaked,
From all sorts of sweat.
What a bitter awakening we shared.
Even with the snow in April,
The ground grew warmer,
Eventually My heart did too.
Even though the times changed,
The music stayed,
Throughout the gardens,
Year after year,
Flowers growing throughout all my awakenings,
Bursting through every crack,
Bitter or sweet,
Breath after breath,
Gasp after gasp.
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5. |
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6. |
Interlude
05:07
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7. |
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8. |
Cherry Blossoms
03:26
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“My heart was rapt away by the cherry blossoms.
Will it return when they scatter?”
(-Kotomichi)
And so, my heart was rapt away.
By the cherry blossoms,
And the wind that blew them.
By the springtime that brought the wind,
And the rotating axis of the bright and pulsing earth
That nudged me towards the hands of springtime.
The garden fences were pounded with rain,
And eventually vines with morning glories
Intertwined with the wood,
And the songs that floated
Through the open window.
The cherry blossoms have scattered,
But my heart has not returned.
Such is the way of these winds:
They’re turbulent; they twist.
Sometimes it takes too long to come full circle.
But I’ll wait patiently:
The cherry blossoms will scatter again.
And my heart, like yours,
Will return once more,
Even if it’s only to be stolen again.
The garden will flower, and the wood of the fence
Will age with a beauty you wouldn't believe.
Watch the morning glories bloom
Feel the wind sweep you off your feet.
The garden is waiting,
The back door is unlocked;
How sweet is that breeze?
The soil is cool to the touch.
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9. |
wrapt away
08:51
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10. |
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When people ask me what I’ll do when I am older,
I will tell them: I will design tools
I’ll go back to school
And get my MSW
I’m going to move out
Of my parent’s house.
I’ll probably be touring.
I’ll be running my own thrift store.
And I will build a garden.
When I first open the garden doors
I'll plant irises at the base of the douglas firs.
A path of black gleaming slate will lead to the bird bath at the garage
And you will be standing there.
With a straw hat
And RM Williams
Smiling, because in 30 years,
We’ll engrave our names
Into one of the trunks.
And you?
You’ll laugh in this garden,
As we celebrate the day you came home with us
every year under the same night sky;
and you? When you greet me at the gate
I’ll hug you like it was 2018 again
And we’ll sit down and smoke, much to the chagrin
Of our family, and shoot the shit.
And you?
Duly wedded, life partners, bringing instruments
And kin and we sit in the sparse vintage folding chairs
And you? I’ll tell you something:
You’ll meet your brother in this garden,
A 3rd birthday gift
And you can hold him here!
In this garden, we’ll swing him through the sprinkler;
He’ll scream and laugh, and in this garden
I’ll hug you goodbye,
I’ll hold you as you head out the back door like it’s the last time.
For one day it will be.
And you, and you, and you
When we open together the wooden garden doors.
Wave to the irises,
And sit beneath the firs.
Walk into the garage
recall all the trash we
Got rid of and all the junk that’s still there.
Don’t you remember what we built in this garden?
The boxes buried, the compost, and the fallen apples
This garden, with every gloomy corner, every bright blade grass,
Each one whispering what Dad used too:
‘How’s my grass seed growing back there?’
He neglected to talk about the lawn mower,
But I know he wanted me to keep the grass short.
This garden was so young once.
I have dulled in tandem with those black slates we walked on.
But you, you are here regularly with me, smoking and cracking jokes
And turning our hearing aids up.
When we were young, we spent every moment together
For each moment’s newness.
Now we sit together because we’re too old
To be too far apart.
I have trouble remembering
The name of the (castle).
I know what it looked like though.
I guess there are some speakers tucked away back here.
How could we have listened to all that music?
In this garden?
We were just talking about leaving;
The click of the garden door latch
When you close it one more time.
I don’t hear that much anymore
The crystalline clink of the closing garden doors,
That lead to the irises at the base of the firs.
I travelled to Quebec, to scatter your ashes
I cried as you went down the Coulonge.
You always loved the water.
And this garden, is still here.
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11. |
Andrew Jacob Rinehart Waterloo, Ontario
I play harps connected to computers, and write songs about soil.
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