Gather ye zinnias
while ye may,
and salute not much
with patchwork nosegay.
With spikes of cool lavender,
chrysanthemum puff,
in little glass pitchers
not much is enough.
It doesn’t take big
to bring joy to our eyes;
the palette of zinnias
is its own giant size.
With apologies to Robert Herrick,
and thanks to my dear friend Donna for the zinnia seeds!
Gardening with gomphrena,
the garden polka-dot,
tunes me in to smallness:
obvious it’s not.
It’s called a button flower,
but what we see is bract
that shouts in brazen scarlet
I am BIG compact!
Tantara! it blazes,
refusing to be shy,
fanfare for itself,
scalding to my eye.
Chin up, people say,
and thus we raise our vision,
but the stoic looking up
can result in sad omission;
next our toes, ‘mid last year’s leaf,
in stature seeming humble
littleness abounds
in comfy forest crumble.
We can ill afford to slight
the low and lofty mixed:
balance is decreed
sky and ground betwixt.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
Once upon a time
I was so very small
I played in a hydrangea
to me sequoia tall;
above me peeked the sky
through rosy lattice dome,
so magical the place
I wanted never to go home.
I slid down baby leaves
bright green and paper thin,
rappeled on threads of silk,
then climbed back up again.
Parasols of petals
became my firmament
as I lolled in axel cubby
daydreaming, content.
But I felt a tingling change
back to my normal size
and had to hitch a ride
with a pair of dragonflies.
I scarcely could believe
what I saw with my own eyes,
but how frabjous the adventure
you may easily surmise.
Did you know, dear reader, that tomorrow is Alice in Wonderland Day?
I didn’t either.
Usually I’m thanking S.W. Berg for his photo. This photo is mine, but the reminder to celebrate Alice in Wonderland Day is from him. So thanks, Bill. It’s good to remember that a world of absurdities is nothing new.
A candle in the window
snowman tablecloth
a portal in the frost
life’s enduring froth
no value practical
priceless nonetheless
the simple and the small:
extraordinariness.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
In the center of this twiggy heap
you’ll spy a dot of red
it’s the littlest tiniest bug
yes, a bug is what I said!
The littlest tiniest busiest
scurrying as if crazed
HOLD STILL! I ordered grandly
but he raced about, unfazed.
I couldn’t count his legs
they were just a blur
I couldn’t see a wing
scale, feather or fur
so I think it was a bug
bright as cinnamon heart
harrumphing at out-sized humans
who seem not to be all that smart.
A frilly dot of marigold
a snip of lemon thyme
a dainty plume of tarragon
phlox snow at fragrant prime
radiant brown-eyed Susans
Rudbeckia at the crown:
smallness revels in itself
sans the world’s renown.
If ever a bit of beauty
reached out
distilling itself from life’s blur
hailed us
this is it.
Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
