Of white it can be said
that breath is lost,
a waxen hour
on air embossed.
With thanks to my dear friend Donna for this gorgeous amaryllis.
Category Archives: Gardening
December 2.20: Coping
The inquisitive vine
must find out
what each bottle
is all about.
It must in tendril’d
curl and twist
make sure that nothing
has been missed.
It knows the truth
herein applied:
nothing’s learned
if nothing’s tried.
Happy birthday to D.J. Berg, who can grow anything,
even bottles,
and whose inquisitive vine is a lot like her.
And thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
November 14.20: Coping
The fireworks of fall
though silent be their boom
revel in explosion
of pyrotechnic bloom.
Today is my mom’s birthday, a gardener down to her toes.
She’s long gone to God, but I know she’d love these mums.
She’d also tell me to wipe my feet, the official Mom Greeting.
So happy 102nd birthday, Evelyn Mauck O’Hern!
October 21.20: Coping
It’s a cold grey sky,
wintry overhead,
a rowdy autumn wind
has left me just a shred,
so what do I do
without my coat of red?
I hold out all my arms
and wear some birds instead.
October 20.20
My house naps quiet
behind the tree;
the world passes by
obliviously.
The grandeur of
my life within,
curtained by
the daily din,
cannot be guessed
by passersby
who see my house
as small and shy.
My stemmed fine art
goes undetected,
like ruby rose window,
unexpected.
A splendid secret:
who could know
my little house
is Chenonceau?
October 12.20: Coping
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.
October 11.20: Coping
Is the pond a kaleidoscope,
tumbling, soulless,
into accidental beauty,
or does it
in wistful deliberation
dream itself in Giverny?
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 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.
