Monday, November 20, 2017


Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

The bittersweet vines hung there, in the trees,
by the dusk-cast river, orange berries bursting
from papered-sheaths.

I understood bittersweet.



Sometimes we walk in circular paths that
make what is new seem so familiar,
sometimes, because it is.

This is our challenge: to distinguish reality
from mystery while never choosing
reality over the other.

You know what it is like when something
that lived a certain destiny becomes something
else entirely because it was loved in
a certain way.

That’s the nature of all things. Or, it could be.


When the sun set, I knew that it was still there,
on the trees, but I walked away anyway.

Bittersweet remains.

There is a dear, dear sweetness in that.

© 2017-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Plant Songs" (a work in progress)

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Saturday, November 4, 2017


Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I wondered if the katydid sitting atop the zinnia
knew that this will be its last day. Autumn cares
something about beauty, but she’s not one to
get attached to things, never to moments.

My garden is telling stories about what has been.
If you listen closely, you’ll notice that they are
stories about faith. That’s what seed planting
is: a practice of faith. That’s different than a
practice of promise, mind you. Pay attention
to that.

What will the waxwings do for full bellies
this winter? They are at the frost-softened
persimmons and those wild grapes high in the
red maple much earlier than usual. Is it
wisdom or foolishness that has them there?

Ah. Now that’s a question, isn’t it?

© 2017-2019/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Wonderment" (a work in progress)

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