- Woman, two teens arrested following narcotics investigation
- Former county officials charged with theft
- New Zion Baptist participates in National Back to Church Sunday Sept. 21
- Donors celebrate new school health center
- Debris cleanup underway near Fordham Dam
- Some good, some bad in Obama executive order on protecting antibiotics
- Two arrested on cannabis charges after search of detached garage on North Henrietta
- Man guilty of drug charges faces 60 years in prison
- Rockford BBB aware of ‘Microsoft’ phone scam
- Judge: Chad Grimm will remain on Illinois governor ballot
Literary Hook: ‘The Bliss We Followed': Tending your garden in retirement
By Christine Swanberg
Author and Poet
As spring turns to summer, gardens gather momentum. Rockford is known as the City of Gardens, so whether you tend your own garden or enjoy the pleasures of gardens of parks and neighbors, you might recognize the birds and flora of this poem.
One of the joys of retirement is having the time to tend your own garden. Perhaps this “return to the garden” has deeper meaning than just tending the soil. Being on your knees in the garden has a spiritual significance, too.
The Bliss We Followed
The hummingbird hovers
over ruby bergamot—
soft summer dusks.
Each day another swallowtail
floats by, lands on pink cone flowers
and milk pods.
A catbird meows
behind the lilacs—spring memory,
their heady, lavender blossoms.
At the suet a downy woodpecker
the chickadee right-side-up.
We never lack for birds
here in the sanctuary garden,
where we have returned.
This must be the bliss we followed:
a garden, where I sing
evening song after dinner.
A garden where we sip
old vine Zinfandel and Primitivo
on a small deck surrounded by conifers.
Yes, this must be the bliss we followed:
a garden tumbling with Russian sage,
sprinkles and clumps of French lavender,
prairie grasses of every sort
grown round as hay stacks
spilling and exploding like fireworks.
Sparrows land on phlox.
Families of goldfinch pull out
sun flowers from feeders daily.
Saint Francis and Demeter dance
a two-step near the hostas.
Butter-and-eggs bloom on wispy stalks.
The cottage-bound cats curl,
sweet and strictly cloistered,
like Benedictine monks.
Indigo sky at night.
Venus ablaze, and always
the moon in her many corsets.
First published in Mid-America Review.
Christine Swanberg is a local author.
From the June 23-29, 2010 issue