February 8.19

Yesterday, dear reader, came the fifth sunless day of rain in five days. Also came the haulers in a pickup truck pulling an open wooden cart. They hauled stuff from my garage and then we drove to my storage unit and they hauled stuff from there.

And the rain poured down.

I followed them out of the storage place, and there was no way not to see the detritus of my life, soaked and wilted, riding in front of me. The big cardboard box with the old Christmas tree figured prominently in the heap. Some of the stiff old branches had fallen out and, formed yet in their bent upward curve, lay there appearing to wave goodbye to me. It was the forlornest vignette to be imagined.

That tree belonged to my parents and had seen many, many Christmases. Yes, I still have the top. Yes, it was time to let it go.

But did it have to wave at me?

And the rain poured down.

I came home and attacked the garage, sweeping and shoving and piling. The temperature was 59 and it was suddenly April. We haven’t seen the sun all week, but there was warmth! The daylilies were sprouting!

This morning the temperature is 18, windchill 0. A winter wind rattles the house and my head. Poor daylilies. Poor old frozen Christmas tree.

Mourning is a process not meant to be cured or stopped or unfelt. Grief will be, just as the winter rains will be. I loathe Pollyanna-isms, but there are those sprouting daylilies.

 

January 30.19

 

A cold sun in the sky

twins itself on ice;

the amaryllis roisters:

it too can ignite twice.

 

 

January 14.19

 

You don’t need a fireplace

to have a crackling blaze

there are other fires

that warm our winter days.

 

 

January 2.19

Botanical high-rise

so long my wait!

your Christmas bloom

is a little late

but maybe you knew

you had my plan bettered:

to open with new year

in your own time unfettered.

 

 

 

Disconnections: November 18.18

 

Monument

to lasting function

or rouged and blowzy

extreme unction?

Wizened perhaps

in carburetor

atrophied

in accelerator

rusted, dented,

sedentary

yet with vital

commentary

to give me hope

there’s still some good

within my own

antique popped hood.

 

 

I do not know the creator so I cannot give credit,

but I can tell you this is part of a stop-the-car! display in Fortville, IN.

Is it public art or capital joke? In the eye of the beholder, yes?

 

Disconnections: November 3.18

 

My front yard may be small

but in gold it’s very big

ruddy, blushing yellows

on every branch and twig.

I raised my trusty camera

to capture golden riot

but was dissuaded from my focus

by the egotist too nigh it.

I had to zoom behind

to my neighbor’s tree instead

because nothing photobombs

like the high and mighty red.

 

Disconnections: November 1.18

 

Conundrum suffered yearly:

where to feast my eyes.

Kindling hues come surely

yet always they surprise.