Reading to the Roses

At the end of last summer, in September, I found, between my front doors, a collection of poetry written by one of my former summer camp students. For months and months, I carried her collection in my bag - all through the fall, and through much of the winter. Although I was not writing myself, she was an inspiration. Each day, all through June and July of 2009, she opened her eyes and ears and heart to the world. She paid attention and she wrote. She never missed a day. I knew nothing of this until I found her book at my door - 61 poems for 61 days. William Stafford would have loved her. These poems were written the summer between her eight and ninth grade. She was 14 years old at the time, amazingly present in the world.

For a long time, I have been walking around rather blindly, not seeing, not receiving, not feeling Jade's sense of wonder with the world at all. Last week I decided that beginning August 1, 2010, I would wake up and try to write responses to Jade's 2009 poems - one each day in August. She is much more proficient than I am in all regards - vision, voice, presence. Still, I plan to try to emulate her. I will try to post her poems and one in response. Sadly, I am already behind. But one poem for two days is a start . . .

Here is Jade's August 1st, 2009 poem:

SATURDAY 1st

- Jade DeFehr

Someone once taught

me how

to read to the roses,

or any deserving flower.

Alice in Wonderland proves

they can hear and taste and analyze

the words

tumbling out of

my mouth.

One day I might

even come across a flower

of "The Golden Afternoon"

herself.

I'd sit next to her

all day

to talk

about poetry

and the Queen of Hearts

and such.

I really would learn

a lot of things

from the flowers.

August 1st, 2010

Lisa Siemens

At fourteen, she decides to write

a poem each day and then

proceeds to do so.

Nothing stops her. Nothing

is undeserving of her attention, each day

an open invitation to small celebrations.

For the flowers, she writes – the roses,

the hollyhocks, the fields of blooming

clover; for the green doors

of summer, the lost and found

stars in the sky, the choirs

that sing in her head,

the crickets, the sun, the solace

of one lonely beetle

climbing his own little mountain,

again and again. For all of us, she writes

and writes and then,

when summer is over,

and fall creeping in, she wraps them all up

like a gift, ties them together

with words and leaves them behind

in the doorways of the lucky unsuspecting few.