I need softness:
tiny feathers curved to catch my eye atop garden stone, and another, elongated but tiny still, on a broad elk clover leaf;
a cat whisker left to grant my small wish for magic, for ease;
real rain dampening all sound but its own patter and ping on patio and shed roof;
an epsom salt bath followed by the comforting weight of two blankets on well-lotioned legs;
and yarrow, green despite the long summer, in bloom again and again, with flower flies and furrow bees nectaring.
Sometimes, I tell myself, “I’m in it!” and I rally for the effort, push through, work hard, rise before dawn, sweat for the desired results.
And then,
I need gentleness. The gentleness of yarrow, feathered leaves, scent of grandma’s powder, fascinating with pollinators and tiny lives, ever (through drought and dust, through frost and hail) green.
Recovering from ACL surgery, returning to the job site, “the autumn of our lives”, back-to-school routines—for these I seek the gentleness of yarrow.
The subtlety, the interweaving, the already here-ness, the peaceful tenacity of yarrow.
Wild white, flat-topped, volunteering, welcome yarrow.
