Archive for August 11th, 2014

Temporary beauty and old growth.

All over the bush, on every branch, hundreds of these.

Walk on me.

Sharon’s rose.

Worker bee on a sticky shaft.

There suck I.

Bootstraps of a bee.

Exquisite workmanship at every bloom. She outdoes herself.

Know what I mean?

The thrust of it.

The blooms of dill are lovely in life,
are changed but, in death, undiminished.

Proud death.

Dill and gone.

Smile at the sun smiling,
and filter every ugly thing.

Smile and say, "ah!"

Life star terrestrial.

Pure love, immutable, golden.

Not Texas, just taxes.

Yellow rose represents.

Tabled motion in the parliament of flowers.

Vase of transcience.

Beauty arranged.

Above the orchard about a hundred yards, history barks a lesson.
The big trunk was a chestnut brought down by blight.
The little trunk was second growth, brought low by blight’s grandson.
Blight too shall pass.

Brave try.

Chestnut, not spreading.

Nothing beside remains.
Hunks of trunk at the root.
All the branches have become brush
after a hundred seasons of blossom and fruit.


Alas, poor York!

A little sadness for the loss of shade and loss of keeper apples,
and loss of the bird staging arena of limbs and twigs.

But a hundred-year reign is a fruit-tree jubilee.

 Blessed be.

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Duration, variable: rock for the ages, spore for a day.

We wondered, when we first walked the trails here below the Little Sandy Bald,
if the blocks of quartz we saw every three or four steps,
pebble size to boulder size, clear and rosy and cloudy,
held rubies or emeralds inside,
or sapphires, the fancy forms of quartz.

Walking on jewels; we still are.

In nature, square corners.

Quartz with veins.

Most fungal entities are brief,
pop through the soil for a week
then begin immediately to decay.

Sun shock.

Lichen shelf.

But some harden and settle in for the long term.
And become habitats themselves.

New to me.

New variety.

90º around the trunk,
slipped sidewards in time
comes a fresh beginning.

We all did.

Ooze of birth.

The Jain swish the path before their steps
to insure they don’t crush a bug.
I’m less moved by bugs, but hate to find I’ve crushed one of these.

Thrust their buried spores.

Just looks phallic.

Or a family of these.

Read my mind.

Loam cardinals.

Or even one of these.

Holding a little rain.

Just one.

Not this.

Almost all the way around.

Member of extended family.

Not these.

Puff the magic.

Spore bomb.

Or this one.

Citrus are us.

Just one of these, a hole to breathe or blow.

The parent organisms live underground,
safe from my steps,
busy being the synapses between tree roots
powering the internet of trees.
Really: this is fresh-made science.

Be thankful God does not spend all his time deciding softball games
and litigating kidney stones.

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