Weeds and Poppies

My back garden is a torrent of weeds,
green tangled overflowing.
In it shines golden poppies, first one,
then more pushing through.

Yes I have this body, this face,
expressive hands, concerned expressions,
a listening, empathetic mind.
I have the dark hole, the devil doubt unlovable,
the knotted striving.

Inside hides, beyond, through muddy darkness,
a seed pure, complete.
Underneath tumbling gritty waters,
is a transparent, clear glistening.

I want to touch, to live in these things,
in shining truth, in authenticity,
in a luminescent pearl,
in a golden poppy.

A Time

Is this a time of no great words of wisdom,
but to live simply, practically?

Washing up, I look out the window at the scraggled wood pile.
I stand in our dining room waiting for birds to land on our feeder.
I water the plants at the front of the house.

I’m a mum, and give lots of hugs,
and try to give myself whole and completely.
In the evening I might read or just head to bed, strangely exhausted.

In my job I have a calling, a perfect fit, a place of rightness,
Talking and writing to others, I hope to bring some light.

Is this a time just to be, to do things that need and call to be done,
food to nourish, tidying and cleaning our home?

Is this a time to strip back, sand and smooth,
so the things that are real and true shine beauty underneath?