Archive for July 31st, 2016

Easy living, flora.

The tall flowers, all at once.


A rose leaning languorously on the wire.


Everything is full out.


The day lilies go




and on


in an almost silly abundance.


Hydrangea row


shows no signs of slacking off


in any of the varieties.


On and on.


The timid little flowers in the rail pot have filled out.


The under story is at maximum,
from the ground reaching up among the low branches of the trees,
all the little weeds, all the middle weeds, all the giant weeds.


And this, of course, is the first sign of the end of summer
the fullness before the finish.

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Fauna & fungi, living easy.

Not much, but the bit of rain,
got the suspended droplets and the light just right,


shined up the ornament in the grass,
of cloudy crystal quartz,


and awakened the giants underground,

to upthrust their sort-of flowers here and there,

sharing sometimes with a bird

some seeming prematurely aged,

scarlet and stark whites,

with accidental happy faces,

and with delicious detail.

While, on a different scale, walking on the grass,
the lone doe, Bones, feasts warily on bird-scattered seeds.

Later, down the lawn, shy Esmeralda and her still-spotted twins
from a finch eye view.

After nightfall, on the counter, yes, katydid,
she thought my camera might be a snack.

Outside, the affable ongoing everyday pillage of the feeders.

Our neighbor was sure he saw a bear’s butt slip into the brush
about halfway between our house and his,
a little fellow, 150 pounds max.

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Typing to the end.

When the scarves are completed, the weft packed into the shifting sheds of the warp,
the whole cloth cut from the loom, soaped and agitated, washer-dryer finish,
cut and hemmed, imperfections clipped and made right,
only then is the trademark and care label sewn on.


A novel at the end — The End — well, there are similarities to a pile of new scarves.
Checking for broken threads, keeping tension up as long as possible.
And an editor’s like a washing machine, I suppose.
But all those plates spinning on their sticks
events unfolding because the characters are themselves,
so many ways of falling short,
the finish is never so conclusive as a scarf.


Work space, with roses red and gold.

Luckiest man.


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