grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Fog hovers. Birds sing.

By

Foggy Lake Morning

Fog hovers above the lake

and moves along the shore

like a live thing.

In the distance,

the docks are barely visible,

ghostly even.

The oak trees beyond my porch

sit motionless,

watching for the sun.

A cool morning in July

feels as rare as this spot

hidden in the Ozark Mountains.

The birds sing a thousand songs

as everyone sleeps.

 

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Musical Pairing:

Danny Wright – White Lyte

 

The Poetry of Farm Trees

By

Florida Farm, Mississippi County, Arkansas

Tate Farms (our “Florida Farm” at Little River), Mississippi County, Arkansas

Summer trees

stand thick and lush

a mass of emerald leaves

with branches entwined

like arms braced tight

in a childhood game

of Red Rover.

 

Winter trees

stand single-file

like soldiers

fearless yet exposed

guarding furrows

watching the days grow longer.

 

Grace Grits and Gardening

Musical Pairing:

Tree With No Leaves, Crosby Stills and Nash

 

the dark side of writing

By

A few days ago, I threw myself an old-fashioned pity party.  Just me and my faithful schnauzers.

And potato chips. 

What began as a morning of productive writing spiraled into an afternoon filled with thoughts of what-the-heck-am-I-doing-with-my-life and what-makes-me-think-I-can-write-anything-worthwhile? 
writer's block grace grits and gardening

It was ugly. 
And it all started because I let someone get under my skin. 
A simple comment brought back a flood of insecurities and second guesses. Add to this a lingering sore throat and ear ache plus another 100+ degree day, and I became a crazed and disheartened shut-in wallowing on the couch.

Writing can be lonely and dark on the best of days. Staring at a blank sheet of paper, seeing self-doubt instead of words.

I’m only as good as the last thing I wrote. I don’t remember who said those words, but I understood it, especially on the day of my pity party.

creative writing

And then it began to rain.
In Dallas.
In August.
A steady soaking rain.
From the porch swing I watched fat drops splatter on my tired ferns. The trees took notice as a breeze moved through, dropping the temperature instantly. The entire neighborhood exhaled.
I grabbed my journal and wrote about the rain. Its smell and feel and the way the steam rose from the sidewalk. A few houses down, kids laughed and splashed, delighting in the rareness.
And I remembered why I write.
talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.


Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow. -Margaret Atwood 

“Nothing is wasted on the writer. –Crescent Dragonwagon
The Sky is Crying, Stevie Ray Vaughan

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!