Author: Judith C Evans

Judith Evans has been writing professionally since 2009. Her areas of expertise include copywriting, law and environmental issues. Evans published her first book of poems, I Left Her There, in 2014. She lives in Idaho with her husband John.

Planting in Pandemic Times

~ Judith C Evans ~ 2 Comments

Planting a vegetable garden seems urgent this year.
I suppose it always has been.
But after weeks of walking lockstep with death, social distancing,
And pandemic statistics,
We think it wise to plant more than we did last year.

My favorite store’s garden display
Sits in the parking lot, where the early afternoon sun
Highlights the multitude of greens, pinks and blues
That pop up in rows of peat pots.

Lockstep indeed.
I forget how it feels to just be myself.
Until I see myself as one of many gardeners,
Roaming through the rows of potted herbs and vegetables.
Still maintaining a safe distance,
Face masks come off in the safety of outdoors.

I settle on basil and dill plants
And an assortment of vegetable seeds, for now.
In our backyard, amid half barrels and raised beds,
The trowel plunges into the soil.
It could be any spring, any year.
Our shih tzu watches with contagious joy,

Lockstep indeed.
My husband had read the news this morning:
The pandemic could last at least two years.

My thoughts return to the peat pots of basil.
Our dog has wandered to a sunnier spot.
I momentarily believe the smile in his eyes,
And put my faith in roots, shoots, soil microbes,
The giant walnut tree in the neighbors’ yard,
And the age-old hope of planting a vegetable garden.

Sanctuary Doors

~ Judith C Evans ~ 3 Comments

We stopped attending worship in March.
Palm Sunday, Holy Week and Easter happened at home and online.
We watched live-streamed labyrinth walks and posted #stayhome selfies, grateful to gather in this way.
The sanctuary doors remain closed,
Save for a dedicated crew who virtually serve the body of Christ.

“A little while, and you will no longer see me…”

We had heard reports of the virus for weeks.
It didn’t seem real.
Then we learned about social distancing and non-essential businesses.
Then it forced our doors closed.
When would we see each other again, take communion, sip coffee in the fellowship hall?

“…and again a little while, and you will see me.”

Like a thief in the night, holiness transformed our loneliness.
Encouraging chalk messages appeared on sidewalks:
“Stay safe!” “Love is stronger than fear!” “He is risen!”
Pink, green, yellow and blue letters bearing good news greeted us in the morning.
Daylight hours lengthened.

Parents and their kids drove through a neighborhood,
Pausing and honking their horns in front of a house where a four-year-old celebrated his birthday
Behind closed doors.
Neighbors anonymously left groceries on doorsteps.
Strangers in masks cried for each other over job losses,
Trying to make sense of it all.

In a little while, we saw Him —
In each other, in creation, in ourselves.
We still mourn our losses,
But the sanctuary doors are flung wide open today,
In the broken heart of the body.

Evening’s Poem

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Evening’s hush permeates the house.
April’s premature thunderstorm has settled down.
I’m the last one awake; even the dog has worn himself out.
Scribbled notes, stacked on my husband’s desk, look forward to becoming free verse, villanelles or sonnets.

A solitary robin sings as if thinking out loud, reviewing the day, exhaling as her little ones sleep.

I sit in my recliner, iPad in lap, ready to write.
A Google search turns up poetry prompts.
I type random words until a poem clears its throat and taps me on the shoulder.
“This way,” it whispers.
I follow meandering paths of meter, line breaks and alliteration.
We delight in clever phrases and poignant memories, that poem and I.

Where did it come from?
If only I knew!

The solitary robin falls silent, asleep until dawn.
Our refrigerator crackles and pops its way through automatic defrost.
The last glimmer of sunlight slips between the living room shutters.

I put the poem to bed, wondering why anyone would want to read a poem
About a poet writing a poem.

Rhubarb Red

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I thank God that the pandemic is in the spring —
As opposed to the winter, that is, in all its bleakness.
Winter just sulks in its grayness.
But spring is polite enough to give the illusion
Of new beginnings.

Take our rhubarb patch, for example —
An April harvest when it’s too early to plant!
Bright red stalks of sour goodness
Lift up wrinkly, oversized green leaves.

You can pull up the stalks as easy as pie,
Or cobbler, or chutney.
“Watch out for the leaves,” we warn little kids
Who’ve never seen rhubarb grow.
“They’re poisonous.”

Rhubarb red just may be my favorite color.
My first taste of the sour stalk took place in sixth grade,
When my friend Janine brought some to school.
Expecting something like celery,
I nearly cried at the first hair-raising bite,
But proudly hid my horror and chewed loudly.

Rhubarb red dyes the cutting board as I chop today’s harvest.
I place the pieces in freezer bags,
And take pictures for social media.

Relieved to have a harvest again,
I forget about daily reports
Of confirmed positive virus cases,
And remember what it was like
To buy sugar without wearing a mask.

Resting and Ready

~ Judith C Evans

November’s cold-hearted shadow fell over the backyard.
“Too bad,” our guests shook their heads,
Glancing up at the bare, gray branches of the towering black walnut.
“Too bad we missed the tree in the summer.”
“It must have been beautiful.”
“Now it’s just drab.”
A faint chill, hinting at approaching winter,
Sent the remaining dry, clinging leaves into a sigh.

Later that evening, after the guests went home,
I visited my tree (only the tree and I know that we belong to each other).
In July, her deep green shade had protected me
From high desert afternoons,
As I watched our Shih Tzu play.
“Look up,” said my tree in July, as she offered her sturdy branches, heavy with green walnuts,
To squirrels and sunlight.

Now, in November, I brace myself for shorter daylight hours
And wonder what my tree will do for the next several months.
“Look down,” she whispers, not bothered at all
When people say “too bad.”
“Go down deep,” she says, “go where the roots do their secret work after it snows.”

My tree shares her grandmother spirit
With those who know she is more than enough,
Even when the work is unseen.
Even in the quiescence of winter, as her roots
Lie between resting and ready.
Even as her sapwood slowly dies,
To become the heartwood core she’ll need for the journey ahead.

You Send, I See

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You send the September breeze
When my heart aches at seeing summer end.
The breeze ripples through the maple boughs,
Still bendable in the early fall heat,
So that I hear the trees whisper
Of beginnings in the endings.
Of going underground to work the magic of growth.
You send what You know I will see.

Years ago, that Arizona noon hour,
You sent a white dove for me to see
As I wandered, crushed, defeated,
On the crowded sidewalk in that mountain town.
Your dove strolled ahead of me,
With her feathered head bobbing,
Past the best burger joint in town,
Flipping through discarded potato chips
And dodging hurried footsteps
Of people on their lunch breaks.

I was grateful that You sent
That impossibly white dove
On that impossibly discouraging day,
To remind me of Your provision.
Of course it was You,
Holy Spirit,
Helper,

Or maybe the dove was a daily visitor on that street,
And You simply shifted my gaze
Toward her bobbing head,
As she nibbled on crumbs, blissfully unaware
That we see You in her.

My Voice, Our Voice

~ Judith C Evans

In Your eyes, it was good,
It was very good.
We were good.
I am good.

You spoke our voices into being
And hoped that we would speak
The same goodness that You had seen
On that seventh day.

I had forgotten my voice
Until I heard it in a mountain stream,
Yearning to run free of debris and defilement.

I heard it when a grey squirrel
Looked me in the eye
As he feasted on black walnuts
In the towering tree.

I heard it in the dandelion,
Who lives to nourish and heal,
Whose brilliant yellow blossoms spring up
Again and again,
And who refuses to die
Because she knows we need her.

I heard it in the ponderosa forest,
High in the peaks,
Standing against icy runoff
And monsoon floods,
Whose seeds need fire to wake from their sleep.

And when I looked for You,
I realized we are all Your voice.
We are that voice that spoke us into existence
And that had hoped we would love Your world
As much as You loved her.

The Day I Stopped Apologizing

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The first change was my weight.
Not pounds on a scale,
Not the circumference of my waist.
I just decided to take up more space
The day I stopped apologizing.

And my words? They changed next.
They too carried more weight
And tumbled, clumsy and unabated
Unwelcome and too much
Or too little, depending on whom you asked
The day I stopped apologizing.

No longer sorry about the me in myself,
I stopped asking and doing and just started being.
At home in my skin,
No longer cursing my hormones,
I made friends with my parts
(Especially the ones that had been the subject
of boys’ jokes years ago).

The day I took up more space,
I stopped apologizing
For laughing too loud or speaking too low,
For buying too much yarn or too little bread,
For wasting an afternoon waiting for a glimpse of hummingbirds,
For changing my clothes
Or my mind
Or my profile picture
Or my career plans
Or my favorite color, coffee or movie.

“I am sorry,” I said to myself,
The day I stopped apologizing.

When We Had First Begun

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I wondered if I’d pass this way again.
Stained glass shimmers in the morning sun;
Worship service ends at half past ten.

“I miss them,” was my thinking now and then;
My soul’s rest in God had just begun.
I wondered if I’d pass this way again.

Bible studies met an idle pen
And contemplation formed a church of one.
Worship service ends at half past ten.

This morning, though, I remembered when
They welcomed me in late October’s sun.
I wondered if I’d pass this way again.

Emerging from the womb of my den,
I join old friends to praise the risen Son.
Worship service ends at half past ten.

Voices soar in praise and sweetly blend,
Recalling days “when we had first begun.”
Grateful that I’ve passed this way again;
Worship need not end at half past ten.

How Quickly Time Flies

~ Judith C Evans ~ 1 Comment

Speaking volumes only with her eyes
The patient says along with dozens more,
“Please don’t say how quickly time flies.”

She’d rather lie beneath the clear blue skies,
But learns to live with smells she could abhor,
Speaking volumes only with her eyes.

Twisted fingers merely a disguise,
Her hands once steered a kayak back to shore.
Please don’t say how quickly time flies.

This one-time river runner waits and sighs.
She sees her breakfast tray come through the door
And speaks volumes only with her eyes.

CNAs and RNs could be spies.
They’re seen, you know, on every single floor.
Please don’t say how quickly time flies.

This morning passed more quickly than before.
She could not know she’d breathe her last by four.
Still speaking volumes only with her eyes.
Please don’t say how quickly time flies.