Sunrise Undercover, Droid Shots, original photograph edited with Paper Camera, sunrise at a writing retreat in a small town outside Milwaukee, Wisconsin, February 2012, photo © 2012 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.
The Fallow Field
The master gardener
tithes and tills,
never forgetting to bury her dead—
broken bones rise from the fallow field
odorous compost, grist for the mill.
-posted on red Ravine, Sunday, February 6th, 2012, at a self-propelled silent writing retreat outside of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. With gratitude to my writing friends. For more on composting and how we structure these small silent retreats see: Sit, Walk, Write On Lake Michigan, I Write Because…, and Make Positive Effort For The Good.
Very nice Quoin. I went outside into the yard yesterday to survey the damage after the freezing killer rain of two weeks ago in Seattle. There are many broken bones in the garden and amputations are ordered. This winter has separated the tough ones from the dying, the frozen from the dead. And yet I did see three red fingers rising through the mud in our peony patch. The winter of the killing rain.
Thanks;
Mike Carter
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QM, your post sent chills down my spine. It is not “happy” nature writing, but all life’s experiences, the happy, the sad, the tragic…even though remembrance of them may make us squirm, they are all “grist for the mill.” The only time I lost consciousness, (which, at the time, was a frightening experience,) I drew on the minute details of that to add to a story I wrote much later.
Looking forward to hearing about your retreat!
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Mike, beautifully written response. I can’t believe your peonies are rising from the mud already! Ours will be much later to take shape, way into the Spring. It’s sad to see the damage done when wild storms run through a place. It really does break the limbs of the weaklings, and leave the strong. Some of our ash limbs were victim to almost straight line winds that came through last Summer. We lost two huge limbs that I dragged around to the back and never had a chance to chainsaw before Winter. There’s an oak limb, too, that I could barely move. Thanks for stopping by. Love your observations.
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oliverowl, thank you. I was thinking about this topic while looking out over a red barn and farmland in the distance from the window where our retreat took place. And the four of us there, digging in the compost of hours of silence and writing practice. Really tiring, but good for the soul. I am wondering now when it was you lost consciousness. I find solace in being able to integrate the difficult into some kind of fertile compost. Otherwise, what would we do with it. Write and let go. Or write and hold on. Maybe both. So glad you stopped by.
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Long time no read. The first mind impression I had of the sunrise picture was a a center view of a living body… maybe sitting in a yoga position.
Or maybe the master gardener referenced in your poem.
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amuirin, you are correct in many ways. The landscape lines are actually the covers my body was under while staring out the window at the sunrise. Body as landscape; it all blends together for me. A couple of days it was cloudy. So when the sun shot through, it felt so warm last weekend. I follow your presence on that other big social media outlet. Poetry in motion. 😎
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