The Fruits of my Labor

In the photograph, the child stands
beside the pumpkin; one hand rests on it, possessively.

At first glance his face is cheerful, though unsmiling.
On second glance stubborn, lips tightly set.

In the background pale mist weaves
through the tops of the trees, their leaves painted

in shades of brown and yellow
in that half-light of cold autumn days.

My son’s cheeks are round and rosy
in the cool, moist air. His blue sweater is zipped

tightly to his chin. Black rubber boots, splattered
with mud, reach up to his knees.

Oh, how well I remember that day, the day we went to the field
to pick a pumpkin. How he ignored the hay rides,

the farm animals, the laughing children,
so intent was he on the round, orange pumpkins in the hay covered field.

His stubby two year old legs
carried him from one pumpkin to the other until he found

just the right one. Squeals of delight echoed
across the fields, through the trees, and down to the river below.

I remember how determined he was
to pick it up, to carry it himself,

the pumpkin that was almost as big as he.
I had to persuade him

to let me take his picture beside that pumpkin.
In the end we carried the pumpkin together,

the child large in my belly
turning as though to help.

When I look at this picture, I long for this simple world where peace
lies sleeping, like a comfortable old dog.

When the floor boards would crack and pop
during the long cold nights,

while the wind whispered
its contentment around the eaves.


At seventeen,
the same look is upon his face

and in the unyielding stance of his body
as he stands in the doorway, car keys in hand.

The sun, through the glass, glints
off his earrings, makes a halo of his bleached hair.

He argues, until defiance
ushers him out.


~Kelly King

Pruning Trees

“Few among men are they who cross to the further shore.the others merely run up and down on this side.”-Dhammapada: Sayings of the Buddha,(translated by Walpola Rahula)

Today we pruned the fruit trees. One apple, one peach, one apricot. Summer had caused our trees to become top heavy and overgrown. Autumn had striped them bare. In their nakedness the distinct shape of each type of tree is unmistakable. The y-shaped apple tree, each smooth gray branch angling towards the sky. The peach tree, a confusion of red branches going everywhere and at once nowhere. The apricot with its long elegant tapering branches, no clutter there. Bedraggled and forlorn, a few leaves still cling to the branches, quivering as though with anticipation to be free from the encumbering embrace of the tree.

Human beings have two selves. An exterior self and an internal self. The self-assured exterior is the one we allow the world to see. The internal self -our doubts, our fears, our hatreds, our obsessions, our weaknesses, our turmoil’s, our vulnerabilities, the things we soundlessly struggle with, we keep hidden by the shroud of summer.

We are under the illusion that we are different from everybody else. As with trees, no two people are the same, but we are not different either. In various settings and with varying forms, we all are grappling with the same questions, the same illusions, though some are more adapt at finding answers than others. Occasionally we happen to find someone who has found the answers we are searching for, though these humans are far and few between. Through mental discipline, some people have learned to hide their turmoil’s with smooth perfection; their lives from the outside seem to be gracefully ticking along, while others have not learned this skill and their inner demons are obvious for all to see.

The sky hung sullen and dark over us. A halo of moisture surrounded my husband and I as we worked, causing a silver mist to lie upon our hair and quickly saturate our clothing. As the branches were cut, the bittersweet tang of their sap filled the autumn air. There we are, clipping and talking when a ranting jay dives at us. This miniature kamikaze swoops low above our heads then at the last minute curves skyward, still cursing us. We laugh at his fool-hardiness, use the moment to pause in our work, and then go back to pruning again.

Pruning fruit trees is not an exact science, as no two trees grow the same, though there are guidelines for each particular species of tree. It is done mostly by guess and by golly. The idea is to cull out the unessential, the trivial, and the harmful, clip out the unhealthy. Open up and clear out the clutter, allowing fresh air and sun to flow within the confines of the tree, making the tree more productive.As we clear out the summer confusion, making way for next year’s growth, I look around at our yard. Our yard is a mosaic of all the years we have lived here. The chimes that my husband hung from the eaves in front of our bedroom window so I could hear the wind better, tinkle softly. I notice that the bird feeders in front of the dining room and kitchen windows are empty again. Fall is a busy time of the year for birds who need to store up life saving fat for the lean winter months ahead.

My vegetable garden, barren earth at this time of the year, is to the left of where I am standing. The blueberry bushes, stark against the fence, along with my strawberry plants, are on the far side of the yard. The raspberry canes, the ones my son pulled up in a fit of pique, are back on their trellis, though I am not sure they will survive after such harsh treatment. Under the apricot tree is my herb garden. Parsley, sage, thyme, rosemary, anise, horehound, chives and my lavender plants perfume the air.

To the far right is a garden of native plants that flourish in the sun dappled shade and rich conifer compost, graciously provided by the magnificent Douglas fir, under which they thrive. The rhododendrons, ferns, astilbe, and hosta in this garden provide a green backdrop against the aging fence while sweet woodruff and wood viola cover the ground. Safeguarded by the surrounding plants, a bird bath provides a refreshing dip for the finches and chickadees during the hot summer months. In front of this garden, beneath a trellis covered with kiwi vines, sits a bench, a pleasant place, inviting one to sit and watch the birds splashing in the bird bath.

In the back corner of the yard, beside the lilac, stands the playhouse that my children and my husband built one summer. The shared memory of building it is more important to our teenagers than the innumerable hours that were spent acting out one childhood adventure after another. Unused now except for storing bicycles and basketballs, the once brightly painted house stands forlorn, a testament to vanishing childhoods. Behind the fruit trees, at the back of the yard, is my rose garden. Looking tattered and scraggly now, during the summer the heavily scented roses, flanked by peonies, are a stunning foreground to the laurel hedge looming behind them.

Every now and then, as we prune, we step back and walk around the tree to get a clearer perspective of what we are doing. We talk and quietly laugh about what was and what we think will be. This moment, this shared time is intimate. We look at our yard, at all the years of care we have put into it. In the distance a plane drones on and on, though we can hear it, we only notice the intrusion when the birds are silent for a short time. While my husband is finishing up with the pruning, I rake up the battered brown and orange leaves and put them into the compost to let the fat belly of time deal with them. In the spring, when the trees are blooming and sending out new plump shoots to replace the ones we’ve loped off, the composted leaves will provide rich food for our various gardens.

Occasionally we need to reorganize our life. Prioritizing my husband calls it. Simplifying I call it. It is a little like pruning trees. Cut back the unessential, clear out the unnecessary and the trivial, sweep up the debris. If I don’t do this I find myself lost, easily overwhelmed among the decaying clutter of yesterdays. I find myself internally struggling with turmoil and longings for what I’m not.

There are nights when I wake up consumed with a feeling of panic, like a desperate animal in a trap. I feel completely inadequate and I question who I am and for what propose I am here. I’ve lost sight of what is essential. When this happens I realize that it is time to take a look at what it is that is overwhelming my life. What has caused my life to become unbalanced like a tree before it is pruned. Since it is difficult to see what is directly in front of you, I’ve taken to standing back, looking at my life as though from a distance or maybe from a different point of view. Then, as with pruning, I can see more clearly what needs to be pruned.

When we finish, we clean up our tools and put them away.

~Kelly

Trust Betrayed

A mother watches;

A girl plays in the sand,
squatting, laboring in silence
at the water’s edge. Under her feet
water wobbles, small stones
and pebbles click in the receding wash.
The spilt milk of the surf
foams around her ankles
and not
being responsible
slowly undermines the foundation
of her castle, a thing of beauty
and childhood imagination, adorned
with sea things,
broken shells, crab legs, kelp,
bits of scoured glass.

Overhead gulls scream abuse.

A wave slaps the girl in the face
of her innocence.
She gags and coughs the sea spit
from her lungs, but another wave
knocks her down and
she is tumbled in the water,
her nine year old breasts
scrape on the course sand,
the thick morning stubble of a man’s face.
The suck and pull of the undertow
tugs at her body
and strands of seaweed
entwine in her hair.

And a mother
does nothing.

-Kelly King

Now and Again

Now and Again

After we argued, we
went about our lives, you
to change the oil, me
to make supper, though
our words still swirled
in the cold air that surrounded us,
swirled in the endless eddies of our lives
amongst the relentless ghosts
that bewitched our rationality. We
wrapped ourselves
in spider webs of deceit,
a worn out old shawl
that offers no protection.

After
the oil change,
after
the dishes were washed, you
kissed my hair, your lips
tracing salty trails
down my cheeks
to my lips, then you
took my hand and we
went to bed
into that deep abyss
of avoidance
lest we be seen
by the rising tides
of tomorrow.

~Kelly King

In order to fully embrace life and all of its wondrous joys, we must first accept death.

Solitude of Togetherness

Solitude of Togetherness

I tire of this skin I wear,
the cloth stretched taut
over the bare
skeletal remains
of my words.

There are things within myself
I hold deep
lest they will be taken from me,
mocked and rejected.
Rejection is death.

Somewhere,
I stopped reaching
for you,
waiting
for you to listen.

~Kelly

Life

I pick up
my pen

and feel
betrayed,

the bold,
black ink

meaningless splats
on my paper.

No words will agree.

Sometimes
the struggle
is not
within me.

~Kelly