The brassica weeds with their yellow blooms,

The WineCups, maroon, that flower here, now,

In the ancient amphitheater where Asclepius healed the sick

Are edible,

Medicinal,

Just as the ancestral plants that grew here then.

They’ve always been.

And these children that thrive today in the flora family,

Have emerged from seeds that found their way up

Through the ancient rock that formed the seats

Where our ancestors sat

To hear each other speak their truths

And bare their souls 

In search of cathartic healing.

The caduceus stands.

The brazen serpents may represent 

The strands of our dna

Rising from the clay from which were formed,

Combined with stormy seas,

And nourished by the primordial plants

That gave rise to these

Wild Mustard seeds that continue to grow

And the delicious mallow family 

We know as WineCups today,

And we, ourselves, the fruit of this earth

Which has peopled continuously 

Since time immemorial.

But if you come here,

No need to bring a lunch

With wrappers you would need to trash,

Just munch on the wild grasses known as mustard and WineCups.

-jenn

 There is a sentiment that has been misused

And overused 

And people have been abused with it,

But there was once a great medicine man 

Who, on his deathbed 

Told his son,

And his granddaughters.

He told me, “Tell the people not to cry. 

Tell the people to be happy”

If you go outside and look up into the sky, 

It doesn’t matter if the sky is blue,

Or if you see the puffy clouds,

Whether they be white or gray, or at the sunset,

The deep purple and pink and tangerine,

You will have a deep feeling inside 

That the sun is always shining.

There is always light somewhere.

Sometimes the sun depends on you 

To be like the moon

And reflect the rays of living light

In beautiful ways here on this earth.

Sometimes I hear a parent say,

“Stop crying.”

This is not the same.

They tell their children to look the other way,

Deny what is and try to look happy anyway,

But that’s not Faith. 

Faith is seeing things exactly like they are,

Accepting them,

And knowing that,

Not only the Sun, but also 

The cosmos and the stars shine, too,

To the space around you in a way that makes miracles possible.

Every minute of every day this great power is available 

To those who clear the arena of their minds

Of doubt and fear 

And let the great creator appear

And replenish the energetic dance

Of true power around them.

And so it is something very different I say to you today.

This is not for the children who play upon the earth,

Because they already know.

This is for the grown ass people:

“Tell the people not to cry.

Tell the people to be happy,”

The echo of my grandfather.

-jenn

 Egads, my Love!

The sky is blue,

But icicles dangle on the trees

Between me and you.

My toes were frostnipped twice! I tried 

To go outside and find you.

I long to go and warm your heart,

But would I rather start a fire in here alone

To keep me warm,

Than attempt to resist the rising of the sun at dawn

And Winter’s cruel grip

Upon the frozen hinterlands of Norway?

Your fair cheek, the pale strands of hair hang down,

Ice gray eyes, and cold sea blue your lips have grown toward me.

Am I strong enough to see that spring will come

If I can bear to let this earth turn as it may

And wait for that warm day to spurn the cold?

How old will I be when equity brings that holy mayday?

Whatever my age, in that great year,

These beautiful drops of these frozen tears

Will hang from a delicate chandelier,

Tiny ornate pendulums that will light the great hall

Where we will dance and celebrate the end of doldrums,

And dedicate ourselves to the understanding 

That we have never suffered any separation in our hearts,

But only in our minds.

-jenn

 People come and people go,

As they must,

And sometimes only a mother’s love 

Can bare this,

To exist in the flow of life

And resist the urge to try and control it.

I am a flag pole by the lighthouse,

Unnoticed,

Especially by those who only seek the light.

Travelers weary, traveling at night,

Need a bright sign.

But in the morning,

Some may see

Me standing on the rocks against the pale sunrise.

I beckon in the most loving way I can,

And tender.

My upheld hands await to welcome. 

My gown of white

Blows in the gusty coastal winds,

The white flag of surrender.

Come to me,

All you, who are weary, and heavy laden,

And I will give thee rest.

-jenn

 I’ve thought before 

On a Christmas morn,

When I wake and think of the hay in the barn,

And smell the moisture in the air

Of clouds nestling down,

Putting a foggy dew

On the ground, that is resting from 

A summer’s long work

Of pushing up leaves

And pulling down roots,

And producing the fruit on the trees,

Like pecans and peaches,

And the legumes we just dug 

After the frost, like the peanuts I smell 

Roasting in the oven in their shells,

Already, this morning, for breakfast,

How lucky I am

To be a part

Of the heart of god,

Like you are,

Here on the farm,

Where we can see

So much of the world 

Unfolding so naturally,

So beautifully designed.

I wouldn’t trade this time with you

For anything.

I wouldn’t even trade this dream

Of Christmas morning

For all the toys in Santa’s bag,

Or all the money in First National Bank,

Or all the plastic fame in California, 

OR all the tea in China.

I love this treasure I hold in my mind,

The blessings I find when I go there,

The Everyday Overflow of Joy I find,

Knowing this great kingdom of god

Is growing inside me,

Like the beautiful brown peanut fields of Christmastime

That lie waiting fallow for the winter wheat,

That was sown in cold autumn, and waits to sprout 

Green leaves of hope in winter, 

And yield its first fruits late spring.

I wouldn’t trade my love for you

For anything,

The bright light of your heart and eyes,

The smile on your face,

The love I see moving you

From place to place 

Planting seeds of grace throughout each day.

You are very lovely.

Merry Christmas 

-jenn