light dropped from a great height makes no sound still words now would be thin and near to useless hush, since it's futile to say you are my joy, and watch the hummingbird search the warm, red bricks pretending flowers where there are none © … Continue reading pretending flowers
our forsythia doesn’t bloom, never having been properly pruned the workmen (dirty-jeaned, bantering) being more adept at paint and plumbing than the etiquette of flowers © Sarah Whiteley
I imagine the mint went first, followed closely by the flares of the nasturtiums, and the phlox the day of the uprooting the delphiniums would have been crushed, curls of pearl and sky, into the soil that fed the roses when the garden was pulled … Continue reading the uprooting
in one last, luminous bloom -summer erupts- golden, wondrous sun-drenched sentiment a perfectly whorled farewell © Sarah Whiteley
a brace of camellia buds, pale gold and swollen, nod knowingly in the rain March puddles may come, but the thrush still shouts when he's discovered his mate April is at the threshold and soon a parish of sparrows will be singing themselves silly in … Continue reading thresholds
now the jasmine's done, the Russian sage stands taller, though leggy in the September sun and I begin to look for purple bursts of asters on my walks here and there, the anemones still bloom, though half-droop as if weary of the effort to shine … Continue reading early autumn walk
by the roots, you say, but sometimes the roots are impossible to get at or they've spread immeasurable tendrils in countless directions so that even when pulled, pioneers still bust the sod and burst in yellow jeers at all my efforts may as well give … Continue reading weed philosophy
