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January 6, 2013

20130106-123943.jpgSo much time passes so fast in these baby days. Yet this warm almost-winter drags. In stolen moments, when rocking, say, waiting for sleep (his), I mull over gardens yet to be born. The tough one will grow in the hell strip by our street, the soft one in our own little yard, and a generous one our shared community plot, which still feeds us kale in January. How will this possibly happen in amid all the little kid change I barely stay at the heels of now? By small handfuls, if need be. I imagine our sweet curious busy toddler scooping dirt and piling stones nearby. He knows what kale is, but there is so much more.

I get a poem in my mailbox every day. This, along with the remembered smell of mountain mint, Eric Bachman low on the stereo during a late-coming toddler nap, this is the thinking on the South Side today.

by Carl Sandburg

Blossoms of babies
Blinking their stories
Come soft
On the dusk and the babble;
Little red gamblers,
Handfuls that slept in the dust.

Summers of rain,
Winters of drift,
Tell of the years;
And they go back

Who came soft-
Back to the sod,
To silence and dust;
Gray gamblers,
Handfuls again.

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