A promise wears
hopeful complexion
ever hints at
forward direction
friend of bright cheer
foe of dark doubt
and that’s what a bud
is all about.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
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Tag Archives: buds
Connections: March 20.18
With buds of ice and baby leaves
the seasons wage their war
winter’s grip
in silvery drip
yields to seed and spore.
Happy freezing first day of spring, dear reader!
Connections: June 2.17
And so it begins
the garden in June
warm roots below
bright blooms aboon.
(Now try to say “bright blooms aboon” five times in a row without stopping.)
Connections: April 8.17
In mahogany satin flounce
flirting shamelessly
with vagabond sun
my neighbor’s tree
lifts its buds
coquettishly
tendering rosy nosegay
in leafy filigree.
Vagaries in Gestation: On Being Linear, Part l, 3.12.17
Tuberose © Maureen O’Hern
Did you ever hear words that stopped your breath? I did: our instructor told us that we had to draw without lines. I was a simple English major, with my toe tentatively dipped in the waters of botanical illustration, and I was frozen in that position, rethinking my commitment. Was she serious?
She went on: “There are no lines in Nature.” That helped me not at all. But I left my toe in. What ensued was slavish hunching over a drawing table with neurotically-controlled lighting, racing a life cycle, capturing it with graphite before it drooped and its shadows changed.
Yes, shadows. Not lines. I had to work with magnifying lenses clipped to my glasses, so demanding was the technique. What was perceived in my drawing as a line was in reality an obsessively nuanced shadow, pristine in its effect, subtle in its application. Deadly to my neck.
Thus did I become enamored of buds. I had, of course, marveled at buds as a gardener, but that was not the same as falling into them as a botanical artist. Their myriad tiny hills and vales had gone unnoticed by me — how could I never have perceived that there was not the vestige of a line in those tiny becomings?
Becoming. The meaning of the bud. That moment when something changes in us, when, for instance, someone tells us there are no lines.
Did I know that living — becoming — was not a simple matter of black and white, of sharp, clear line? Of course I did, but that was mere knowledge. Knowledge isn’t the same as wonder. One can follow a line to knowledge, but wonder awaits in shadows.
Please do not copy my drawings or use them in any way.
