September 30.20: Coping

The oak in autumn,

revisionist tree:

not all gall

is divided in three.

 

 

With apologies to J. Caesar

and thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

 

September 29.20: Coping

Long, long ago,

when I was very young,

there was a folksy ballad

plaintively sung.

“One meatball!”

was the soulful refrain,

and now it recurs,

stuck in my brain.

One rudbeckia

is all that I got,

a full-throated solo

in one flowerpot,

brass grand finale

in luminous ONE

as my garden is close to

officially done.

There’s hint of embrace

in this radiant burst,

a hug for the elders

that all blossomed first,

a farewell to the summer,

and hail to the fall,

singular reminiscence

of one sorry meatball.

 

 

I didn’t ask for this old song to pop into my head,

but my head often does things without my permission.

Besides, for those (few) of you who know this old song,

one ear worm deserves another, yes?

September 26.20: Coping

In bright foreshadow

does autumn sun

frost the amethyst;

then does the butterfly know

to kiss it goodbye.

 

 

With thanks to photographer Mary Jo Bassett.

September 25.20: Coping

Layered, airy —

what can I do?

I’m forced to think

of pâte à choux.

You say I am

dessert-obsessed?

I say my world view

is the best.

To meet the world

with proper confection

is the only way

I’ll survive this election.

With more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,

and to Ritchey Woods, Fishers, IN.

Well, dear reader, I think it has happened: a new editing in WordPress.

The spacing in this is not what it’s supposed to be,

and I’ve tried everything I know to fix it.

September 22:20: Coping

It seems to me

there’s an obvious plot

to get my goat

(which is got a lot).

How else explain

these mortal remains,

matted and framed,

among the day’s banes?

A villainous move,

a deliberate ploy,

to irritate, vex,

to taunt and annoy.

There was nothing to do

but take all apart

and grouse at the bug

who thought he was art.

 

 

September 21.20: Coping

Gather ye zinnias

while ye may,

and salute not much

with patchwork nosegay.

With spikes of cool lavender,

chrysanthemum puff,

in little glass pitchers

not much is enough.

It doesn’t take big

to bring joy to our eyes;

the palette of zinnias

is its own giant size.

 

 

With apologies to Robert Herrick,

and thanks to my dear friend Donna for the zinnia seeds!

 

 

September 18. 20: Coping

Table for three

on patio breezy;

blue-plate breakfast,

echinacea over easy.

 

 

Please pardon the filmy look, dear reader.

Sneaking up on finches requires a window between them and me,

and some deft manipulation of Venetian blinds and camera.

September 17.20: Coping

Sometimes I seek pattern and purpose,

a sense of order and reason,

so I wander in Nature’s museum,

restoring in every season.

Just when I think I have calmed,

and life seems a degree less preposterous,

Nature guffaws at my quest

and shows me a pod that’s a walrus.

 

More thanks to the sharp eye of photographer S.W. Berg.

September 14.20: Coping

Writhing, the trees hiss

against the heat,

a low sky belly-crawls,

dragging its grey

over the chimneys,

and my lungs strain.

A slither of cool air

coils,

black clouds

stalk the horizon

on hot haunches,

growling,

so I know their want

and my littleness.

 

 

 

September 13.20: Coping

Silver lining:

wishful trust,

wooden nickels,

pixie dust.

And yet that which

I can’t deny:

white hot silver

in the sky.

 

Thanks yet again to photographer Emily Berg Baine.