A driven, fevered
bee be he,
zigging, zagging
drunkenly;
mead of autumn,
sweet and heady,
makes his skinny legs
unsteady,
wobbily resolved
in year’s decline
to buzz each flower
an Auld Lang Syne.
Category Archives: Food
October 8.20: Coping
In harvest bronze the morning sun
gilds the whorling dill:
the year is old but be it known
that there’s a new day still.
And newness goes with every seed
into a time unknown,
bearing fragile hope
from the present that we own.
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 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 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 10.20: Coping
The recipe,
that work of art,
bequeathed from bubbling
kitchen heart,
with stain and splot
of ancient dough,
bringing to Now
the Long-ago.
Penmanship of
floured hand,
preserved on paper
less than grand,
thus creating
choice giftwrap
of what was once
a lowly scrap.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,
and to Rose Schloot, owner of Cross River Lodge,
Grand Marais, Minnesota,
where this eloquent old piece of the past is displayed.
August 16.20: Coping
Discouragement abounds,
angst, depression, fears;
my pate completely addled,
my brains ooze out my ears.
I feel as though I’m squeezed
by vise of pointless tripe;
innuendo and conspiracy
spring up in endless hype.
And isolation never helped
the cause of sanity;
it gives the upper hand
to crazed inanity.
I look for logic, reason,
a sense of what should be;
I find it in the bakery
in sweet geometry.
I do not make light, dear reader, of those who have little food. Or none at all. I know how fortunate I am to think about desserts.
Many thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
and to the artist-bakers at la Madeleine.
August 8.20: Coping
The very hungry caterpillar
has cousins by the score;
single-minded critters
whose battle cry is “More!”
So formally attired,
you’d think them more discreet,
but completely unembarrassed
they hold dinner with their feet.
July 11.20: Coping
2019
2020
Yesterday I read a blog that asked if the reader has any gardening disappointments this year. Is he kidding? “Gardening” and “disappointment” go together like echinacea and Japanese beetles.
This is my third gardening season here; if you are a gardener, you know the third season is the beginning of seeing the garden as your own. For me, two distinct garden worlds: a bit shady in the front, a lot sunny in the back. Yes, Indiana clay and nasty root systems, exuberant invasives, malicious rabbits and chipmunks. But gradually mine.
Problems with a contractor have made it impossible for me to plant anything in the back this summer. All I have is a struggling collection of gangly seedlings with no place to grow. Empty tomato cages. No frilly yellow blossoms morphing into reds and golds. Not merely disappointment: it’s loss.
Gardeners survive the winter because they know a garden is coming, so when the garden fizzles the gardener kind of fizzles too. She might even let slip an imprecation. Maybe two.
Not everyone is a gardener, of course, but everyone has disappointments. And losses. It seems to me they are all felt more deeply this year because isolation is fertile ground for deep feelings.
So we cope, best we can, with emptiness where there should be life, and watch disappointment become loss, but we should never underestimate the toll it’s taking on us.
June 7.20: Coping
Sunday brunch al fresco
never better was
with family all decked out
in finest feather and fuzz.
