Gardeners’ dedication
is in leafy order writ;
more subtle is the telling
of their heliotropic wit.
I do not know the photographer or gardener or painter of the sign, but I love the photo!
Many thanks to S.W. Berg for passing it along.
Garden icon
myth and man
ubiquitous
as watering can
the story goes
his whispered word
was carried by wind
his followers heard
is he today
sculpted in stone
because he invented
the first smartphone?
With no disrespect intended to Il Poverello, whose bemused expression watches over the pond
from my neighbor’s yard. I just wish he wouldn’t be so welcoming to the chipmunks.
Basking in my sunshine
snuggling on my fence
this manic excavator
is pure impertinence
taunting me, Goliath,
feigning innocence
as though his bright-eyed smallness
masked malevolence
but I know his evil habits
— curse his tiny hide! —
he’s only biding time
’til Goliath goes inside.
I still haven’t figured out how to remedy this problem inserting photos in my posts. I haven’t yet turned to the folks at WordPress because I don’t even know how to ask the questions. I am darkly frustrated by the not-knowing.
Usually when I am frustrated I turn to my beloved outlets of baking or gardening or drawing or playing the piano or — I must admit — housecleaning. Doing is the antidote to stewing. But now I have something called CPPD. It goes nicely with my HHT, don’t you think, dear reader? If I live long enough, I’ll be a whole bowl of alphabet soup.
Many old people have CPPD but without symptoms. I have symptoms. To quote myself, PHOO. CPPD is incurable, its damage irreversible. Mine is deemed “erosive” because of the bone damage. How scary is that? Bone erosion? Now I cannot use my hands as I used to. This is as deep a disconnection as I can imagine. My hands have connected me to freshly baked cookies and fresh herbs and Bach Inventions and sketchbooks and fitted sheets tight on the mattress.
Taken with the osteoarthritis and osteoporosis, the CPPD gives me the image of a swarm of microscopic ants with my skeleton the picnic lunch.
When technology beats me up, when I hear of yet another school shooting or another holiday from truth, I want to grab a shovel or a spatula and DO something. Will the ants leave me anything with which to DO?
Flocks of wisteria
in lavender plume
hover mid-air
on winged perfume.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Some ancient mythic language
ebbing, swelling, weightless
like liquid air
many-voiced
chorus of Sophocles
bade me stop.
I turned toward the sound
the fullness of new leaves
spring petals
soft as babies
supple in newness
stroked by wind
sibilant and sure
wanting me to know
something.
Still as the dead
I listened
taut
to pluck a word
but there was none.
A gardener’s patience is saintly
trained in Nature’s way
and that’s how on recent occasion
you might have heard me say:
Hey, lazy seeds, what’s your problem?
Where are my beautiful flowers?
You’ve been tucked in and watered
for well over forty-eight hours!
