Poetry & Recipe: Sweet Summer Treasures

Today was my first trip to the local farmer’s market. The jewels of summer laid out in heady glory, each vegetable or fruit courting attention. Today I sought treasure and the feeling of home. The essence of love in pie form. Blueberries and nectarines without hesitation.

Tomorrow is June 11th. On June 11th, 1888, Vincent Van Gogh was conversing with Emile Bernard. “There can be no blue without yellow and orange.” 

And there it is: Dark, limpid globes of blueberries set against the tart sunshine of nectarines. And it has to be an oat and honey crumble. No false sugar or bland crust to hide the beauty. Honey to bring in flower nuances, Oats to deliver the earthy, solid texture of warmth and home.

The picture above is the end result.

Peel 3-4 nectarines and arrange in the bottom of the pan. Add 1 cup of blueberries. Drizzle with honey.  Melt 1/2 stick of butter in a pan and stir 1 cup gluten-free quick oats and 2 tbsps. more honey.  Top fruit with crumble. Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 30 minutes.  Let cool a bit, enjoy and share with people you love.

I wrote the poem below on a night like tonight, full strawberry moon rising above the peach-lavendar sunset. When summer is opening up in every color, in every breeze, in every flower, in all its bright affirmation of love and life.

The Other World of You

I know there is a secret part of you the world cannot touch
That glow beneath the skin, incandescent purple just at sunset when you
Are certain it is your will alone that melts winters into ripe summer blaze.
That part of you I glimpse in flashes through your eyes in the
honey-blue
crescent of your iris, the eclipse of soul dancing around the full
moon of your field of vision.
In my light, the half-light cascading chiaroscuro, I can read your secret map,
follow the nerve and vein of you, chart indigo rivers to your heart, find
my location by the pulse of your blood, the longitude of your
half-dreams unborn to the light of day.
The carbon-star of you burning through my heart simple and singular as a
fingerprint, I trace my lips across your cheek and suddenly
I am home.

 

 

 

Maya Angelou Still Speaks to Me

hubble_share“In the flush of love’s light, we dare be brave. And suddenly we see that love costs all we are, and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.’ – Maya Angelou
Maya Angelou left us here three years ago today. That is to say her body passed on and out of our shared mortal coil.  Her voice and her words, her indelible honesty, her dauntless hope are not going anywhere.  Her legacy is bright, solid as stone, smooth as truth, infectious as forbidden laughter.

I read her biographies, devoured her poetry, understood her silence at heart level.  I wrote a poem for her a long time ago. For her,  like her, about her. It is a small thing. Not so much a great work of greatness. It is a small piece of love to be added to the patchwork quilt of kindness and rememberance; the network of loving words spoken about someone when they leave us. It is the muffled muttering of minor stars when a supernova in their constellation flickers out.

FOR MAYA

Sleepy limbs, naïve time

Waiting to heal or to smile

Tethered star, worn out string

Breached scars, my hope still sings

 

Whispered hope, dial-a-prayer

Hoping God answers there

Weary lungs, heavy sigh

Raw-mouthed, my voice will rise

 

Paper skin, purple veins

Ache with cold, shake with rain

Vision weak, mem’ry sweet

Thoughts awake, my heart beats

 

Wisdom-rich, money-poor

Faith mighty, body sore

Free to give, free enough

Happy too, my gift is Love.