Curled and lifeless remnants
of verdant summer past,
piled in brown haphazard
as wool to winter’s blast,
give way now to surgings
of supple green newborn,
to Bacchanalian clusters
and blast of sunny horn.
The party hats of spring
donned by stem and twig
declare the end of brown
and bounce in happy jig.
And now my consternation
in querulous note to you:
why does such depth of purple
show here as a beautiful blue?
Ah, the mysteries of photography. You must take my word for it, dear reader: the blue is really purple, and the golden yellow combined with that rich purple is hurting my arm as I pat myself on the back for transplanting these bulbs a couple years ago: the gardener’s gloat. (Ah. I hear at least one of you thinking you’ll get my gloat.)
Somewhere in this barrenness
Oddments 