“Rhododendrons, Stephanart Studio” DS
[The philosopher] Heidegger referred to poiesis as a “bringing-forth”, or physis as emergence. Examples of poiesis are the blooming of the blossom, the coming-out of a butterfly from a cocoon, and the plummeting of a waterfall when the snow begins to melt; the last two analogies underline Heidegger’s example of a threshold occasion, a moment of ecstasis when something moves away from its standing as one thing to become another.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poiesis#Overview
Poetic Reflection: An Evening Sweater
Reminiscence from an opposite season
Tonight, after dinner, I am bundled up in the garden.
It is still summer but a cool breeze pervades
as the sun, soon to set,
shines so strongly on my sunglasses. I breathe deeply
this pleasure of being in the garden.
It is indeed one of the luxuries of life.
I hear planes, cars and a weed eater; no birds.
Oh, now that I say that, a crow caws in the distance.
It is a fine interlude on this busy Labour Day Sunday
to pray, to think, to just be. I loosen my jaw.
I notice the violas that have survived the drought.
I notice the weed studded lawn.
Orange red berries grace the mountain ash trees.
Cotoneaster berries are bright red
like the resilient geraniums that are
still here from last year, and will soon go inside
to emerge in the warmth of another spring.
Fall means study for me; always has.
This year I take a course, and I give a course.
I do not know which I will enjoy more.
Over the summer I have done a clean up
and purging in my study, garden room.
I have brought in a lime green chair from
which to observe this garden of mine
when a sweater will not be enough to sit outside.
In the past, I have been known to be
in such a hurry for spring
that I packed a winter picnic for the kids,
sat on a bench with a book and
watched them laugh and form angels in the snow.
My children, grown now, love winter.
They do the snowboarding, the skiing and snowshoeing
that for me was done from an armchair, if at all.
These children have been my true garden,
my real landscape,
grown by the Son, fed by the Spirit,
planned and pruned by the Father/Mother.
They are my seed and my offspring,
my harvest in life.
My nurture of the garden is but a model,
a prototype of my care for them.
May God bless the descendants that are
and that are to come
As you have done for our foremothers.
Amen.
Pink Bird Writing 