W.B. Yeats speaks to the greatest wish of all writers – and eloquently so.
All the words I gather,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm darkened or starry bright
W.B. Yeats
London, January 1892
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on May 3, 2019
https://choppingpotatoes.com/2019/05/03/where-my-books-go/
Coming home to porch lights beaming like a beacon,
a sign that someone inside loves me,
anticipates my return.
Blossoming across the porch,
filling that space,
highlighting the grain of empty adirondack chairs,
the shadow in the space between the slats.
Spilling over and through the tic tac toes of the windows,
imbuing the living room with a soft warm glow akin to Christmas candles.
The lines of the room the only thing standing out:
straight across the back of the sofa,
the vertical rungs of the rocking chair,
the vaulted grid over the glass of the wood stove
In this dim light,
this stark relief,
is the bones,
the foundation of what matters.
The lines of life in this place,
this home I fell in love with.
In the light of day, distraction drowns them out
But here, in the quiet of night, profound simplicity reigns.
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on November 8, 2018
https://choppingpotatoes.com/2018/11/08/profound-simplicity/
I cannot see a lilac without catching out of the corner of my eye
the diaphanous flow of sheer sheeting of the same color.
The folds and waterfall of fabric enveloping my body like the ring of a bell,
smooth against the pop of buds bursting
into three-dimensional triads and quartets of color.
Green hearts gilded with the white patina of many moistured mornings,
a specimen grown gangly and sparse,
cut to the quick before flourishing in fullness once again.
Overtaking its age,
shooting up sprouts all around it,
expanding its perimeter.
It is the harbinger of spring,
of warmer days promised in the perfumed chill.
It is the talisman of youth,
of adventures in grandmother’s garden,
the boundary of Mr. Thompson’s yard,
the backdrop of moments frozen in time.
I cannot smell a lilac without being at once wistful and hopeful.
image from Getty
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on May 23, 2018
https://choppingpotatoes.com/2018/05/23/a-lilac/
Stand at the foot of the hill.
Gaze at the crest as it looms above,
Silhouetted against the night sky,
Suddenly light in comparison.
A streak of cloud, the rounded edges of treetops.
To feel small in the furrows between the tall corn stalks
To feel broad and expansive in the dampened dark of night
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on August 15, 2017
https://choppingpotatoes.com/2017/08/15/above-and-below/
Crisp air punctuated by the smell of pine
Crickets in the thickets of roadside grass
Their calls cycling faster and faster as I pass, like a card in bicycle spokes
Highbeams illuminate the trunks of trees lined up like the walls of tunnels
Unclear whether the fog films the windshield inside or out
In the cool of night, summer falls away
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on August 11, 2017
https://choppingpotatoes.com/2017/08/11/a-late-summers-night/
I love that there is a line of light on the horizon,
a gleam just beyond
A glow of grey at the billowing edge of green,
the globes atop tree branches
It is dark in the corners –
But there, far away, it is bright.
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on May 29, 2017
https://choppingpotatoes.com/2017/05/29/gloaming/
A bloody gouge across my ring finger
coagulated and dark by the end of the fray
Tiny teeth marks amidst pink raised skin
Ragged red streaks where fingernails have strayed
The physical signs of one morning of motherhood
These are nothing of the mental anguish,
the emotional toll
the trials and tribulations
of getting out of bed and out the door
Today there are scars to show
for all the toil
Outward reminders
of what is always underneath
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on April 25, 2017
https://choppingpotatoes.com/2017/04/25/3502/
Chopping Potatoes 