Archive for May, 2017

Trees waking.

Tapestry yarn and embroidery floss
come in 500 shades —
200 of them are greens.

This is the time of year when you know why.

They’re lighter yellower now,
settling in summer to darker bluer tones.

Except for a few with a different plan

Downhill towards the weeping cherry

not growing up like most trees

but ever wider

making a tree house on the ground.


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Groundlings.

Best not step anywhere —
whatever new life you didn’t crush
just means you’ve crushed another
— so dense our biosphere
in the temperate rain forest of Appalachia.

New flowers push up
from the forest floor


from the composting transmutation
of leaves and branches not dead exactly.

A few (money) plants set at the top edge
spill wider and deeper every year,

compounding, while feeding and sharing sex with butterflies.

Thousands of them are marching now,
the apples of May,

but these were the first.

A predictable perpetual surprise.

 

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Human intrusions rise and settle in.

The new leaves and the understory have not yet
closed the view  of the old shacks down the hill.

The herbs and flowers wake up
to a new arbor and a gate,

so new nothing’s climbed it yet.

The pattern can be seen from space,
or at least from Google maps,

cut through the hay; the loop around the shed,
the three branches — to the road, to the compost, to the barn.

Walk softly on the poaceae-glyph,
(poaceae, the family of grasses),

but bring your long shadow.

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Rocks and a hard place.

They still seem to me to be jewel rocks,
all the forms of quartz,
perched here and there, watching what we do.

Quartz can enclose emeralds and sapphires,
unless they’re crystal and you can see they don’t.

.
Posed wherever they are pleased to,
milky white and rose and clear and tawny brown,
quartz is a family of precious, semi-precious, and mundane,
amethyst, chalcedony, agate, citrine, tourmaline, beryl.

Clutched by roots, bedded in the road,
or in the branch, simply there,
inhabited by life forms, some that share their surfaces,
some that invade and digest them at the old pace of gaciers.

The ants, both black and red,
which probably will bring trouble,
are building a metropolis in the middle of the path.

A human body with a camera looming over their city
sends them underground in an instant,
quicker than a Cooper’s hawk clears a yard of birds.
There were thousands crossing and crissing as I approached,
then there were none.
Zoom in on the picture and you’ll see,
in nearly every hole, ant heads looking up,
waiting for the all-clear.

The holes are new, they have no hills yet to shed rain.
Every couple of weeks they will be overrun by a 700 pound mower.
This was not an auspicious siting.

Perhaps they will endure regardless,
or be crushed, or move a few feet sidewards.

I’m betting they will outlast me, one way or another, as will the rocks.

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