Archive for July 31st, 2016

Easy living, flora.

The tall flowers, all at once.

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A rose leaning languorously on the wire.

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Everything is full out.

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The day lilies go

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on

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and on

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in an almost silly abundance.

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Hydrangea row

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shows no signs of slacking off

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in any of the varieties.

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On and on.

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

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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.

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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,

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

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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.

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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.

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Work space, with roses red and gold.

Luckiest man.

 

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