Writing from the Outside In

There are no less than six books titled Writing from the
Inside Out, probably more.  The phrase is
so universally accepted, it’s almost embarrassing to raise my hand and say,
Yeah, but . . .

Yeah, but that’s not the way I write.  My writing process goes like this, I see
something, an image or an interaction, and then it triggers a response in me
(Are you kidding, me? Gross! Wonderful! or Horrifying) and then I write about
it.  Writing from the outside in.

So, today I decided to revamp my blog (hope people like it)
and challenge myself to write on it once a day for a week.  A new poem every day.  I know that other poets do this for a month
or more, but the pressure! The pressure! 
I thought, maybe I could handle a week. 
What to write about? 

Well, I looked around and got as far as the perennial garden septembering in the front yard. 

Oh, yeah. It’s September! Time for kids to start school, pack up
the shorts and sleeveless shirts, harvest tomatoes, and trim the barberry.  The barberry bush in the front perennial
garden it all uneven and grows at astonishingly different rates.  Some branches bolt while others are content
to pop out a few new leaves and call it a season.

Aesthetically I like a loosely rounded mound of bush, so I trim back
the wild hairs.

Which is why a barberry bush is NOT like a classroom. 

Sheering

No matter how tempting to

round out the children

into a balanced arrangement,

to tidy the garden

with standardized hedges,

outlining a pre-ordered path,

a child’s bloom sequence

can’t be projected,

and set out in symmetrical rows.

Formalized flowerbeds

draw nodding praise from those

who have mostly forgotten,

the uneven feel of the earth

on bare feet and

that gardens grow

best and brightest

when we nurture and feed the roots

instead of confining ourselves

to relentlessly shearing the shoots.

Michael spent the morning weeding the garden and I spent the afternoon writing a poem about the garden.  We’ll have to sort that out later.