In search of story


February 20.23: Coping, but barely

The amaryllis catches light

in petal prisms, fancy’s sleight;

look to science if you must

but I will call it pixie dust.


I do realize, dear reader, that not all of you are old enough to remember Walt Disney’s version of “Peter Pan,” featuring Tinkerbell and her pixie dust. But you can imagine. It’s hard not to be drawn to Neverland; that second star to the right was beautiful. And who, after all, wants to grow up?



February 1.23: Coping, but barely

What gardening sage

will I have to be

to fathom theĀ how

of this galaxy?

I can fathom the why:

to make our lives livable.

That is an axiom

I hold is unquibabble.

It grew from a blob

aesthetically dubious,

like tentacled shmoo

squatly lugubrious.

I can’t figure how

such blithe transformation

from dowdy drab bulb

to winged constellation.



With thanks to my dear friend Donna,

who sent these winter wings.



Connections: April 25.18

The tulips languish, sodden,

(those not by rabbit eaten)

jonquils merely leaf

cold-weary, winter-beaten.

A miser’s hand apportions

the flowering of this spring

there’s scant delight in the meadow

and nary a daffy-down-dilling.

But from windless cozy house

a trumpeting four-in-one

sings out to the colorless garden:

“I’ll show you how it’s done!”

It quadruple megaphones

“You can be like me, yay, verily!”

the concerted garden response

comes back somewhat raspberrily.



With thanks and apologies to Shakespeare.