Blue Dahlias A hoe, a spade, a rake – what more do I need? Gardening is an instrument of grace. Ordinary delights grow here – barren wort, bugbane, fountain grass, meadow rue. And maybe, one day, blue dahlias – something rare, unheard of. Why build a fancy house when you desire a cottage? Travel doesn’t satisfy craving. Craving for what? Dervishes whirl around their hearts, burn like a torch. This too is prayer. Gardener Teapots Sept. 12, 2001 This morning the sun rises alizarin crimson juice pressed from the madder root. I take my favourite porcelain mug stencilled with an English country garden and while the water boils, add a pinch of Russian Caravan to the tiny pot with the cracked lid. Gardener teapots red,yellow, blue bone china made in Russia under Peter the Great were lugged by camel caravans over the Silk Road to Pakistan. Waiting for the tea to steep, I hear the Great Blue Heron’s kraak as it lumbers into flight birds in the air, fish in the sea, and the world did not end yesterday in New York. When the pots broke, menders salvaged the jagged bits, bound them with the copper lugs and sealed the cracks with tar so they could again brew tea. No Trade-Ins Allowed I bought, you bought a: Tsimshian mask of a human transforming into an eagle The winter we accused our son of using drugs, he reproached us for having possessions Thai Buddha with mother-of-pearl eyes He shaved his head and in monk’s dress meditated among the wild rhododendrons Oxford red leather Bible that lacked ingredients tasty for worms Euphoric, he communed with God, blamed us for not sending him to church as a child Wool rug from Beijing ancient coins woven dead centre He sold his gold chain and the ring engraved with his Chinese name but that didn’t drive away his demons Gilt carving of soldiers on horseback from a home ransacked by Red Guards One night in a back alley, he wrestled his father to the ground, stole his wallet Balinese kris, its bloody history embodied in the blade He ripped off the hilt and pawned an ebony lion with ruby eyes Floppy clown dressed in red hearts from close to home After he was diagnosed we tried to make a deal with God Sky-Calling for Ron The albatross has a wingspan twice as wide as you are tall and hollow bones so light she barely moves her wings in flight, those long thin wings hinges to fold like an origami bird though she stumbles on earth with big webbed feet – a gooney in floppy shoes. Every winter she circumnavigates Antarctica, buffeted by icy currents and Katabatic winds, lands on the ocean to feed and rest – though how she sleeps in avalanches of water is a mystery to me. Once a year she returns to breed on the Tairoa cliffs, flapping her wings in a hullabaloo, craning her neck to the sky and screeching for her mate until he comes and sits by her side, as if to say, I need you. I’ll always need you.