So much waiting to be born.
Blackberries not yet on the
bramble path, much less so
sweetening tarts and tongues.
Spring peepers chippering
moonlight — oh what a wonder to
be the pond that enjoys such a
buxom chorus. Sap waiting to
rise in rabbits and wolves —
their winter stains bled and shed
for the next generation’s fur and
teeth. Wood violets and dandelion
laboring earth and leaf debris
— no less faithful the insects and
breezes that scatter their seeds
and gaiety. Wide vees of geese
to unzipper sky of cloud and fog,
percussing wings and wills of
summer grazing across fields,
streams and highways. Green,
pink and yellow ready to stir
northern gardens into tulips,
roses and corn. Yeast with water
and wheat rebirthing warm and
wrinkled hands — rises and yields.
Rises and yields. The soft dough
braiding Spring into Easter Bread,
Babka and Challah.
so much waiting to be born.
AG ~ 2017
“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.'” Pablo Picasso
…and some of us have to become artists in order to learn how to play like children again.
picking out balloons at the party store mesmerized by all the candy
storms of tweets
somehow Stella makes the storm more neighborly
sometimes it takes a storm to bake cookies
I ~ Stella
The storm becomes her name.
Or should it be Blanche?
Charm is 50% illusion.
I don’t want realism. I want magic!
Haven’t you ever ridden on that streetcar?
that bangs through the Quarter
Why, they told me to take a streetcar named Desire.
II ~ Nuances At Midnight
Yesterday a Spring walk.
Waking to a chiseled morning rides a wild mustang.
A dame that knows she’s good looking.
What kind of a queen do you think you are?
The real cork.
Marie Antoinette meets Blanche DuBois.
They eat cake. Where’s Stella?
She’s out there on the porch.
almost forsythia a little rain a little snow
imagine simmering pots of fragrant words
cabbage and beans
a garden celebration
of rustic stars
letting go letting g letting lettin lett let
silver heads in the crowd —
did we march together
many moons ago?
mother and children at the protest rally new beginnings all over again
silver heads at the rally learn to text CODES for old chants
history repeats itself the very first time I did this
I hate dusting! I’m okay with housecleaning, and I hand wash dishes every day. However, when it comes to dusting, I usually find an excuse to back off like a kid being offered cod liver oil. I usually tend to be seduced by taking photos of dust mites, roses drying on their stems, pillows-on-fire or the dog who resignedly puts up with my in-her-face antics. Anything but dragging a rag over furniture. Thankfully I’m never too concerned with it until you can finger and linger a date on the countertop. All this as a segue into some “let’s capture-the-light-photos.”
lengthening light my muse calls time out!