Unfolding like spring itself,
phacelia morphs from
ram’s horn to barbed-tailed scorpion to
cat’s tail curled at the end
in a wary twitch.
Anomalous to neighboring
bright-faced poppies and asters,
unpretentious in muted greens and beige,
she nonetheless shimmers with
foraging bumblebees;
nature’s cornucopia.
It’s my first excursion in my newly acquired camper van. I drive from city freeways to arterial roads to country roads to the vague essence of roads in middle-of-nowhere eastern Oregon.
I remember driving roads like this in my younger years, in a handpainted red Dodge pickup, where I sometimes had to hop out of the cab, raise the hood and shove a rod back in place so I could shift out of neutral. A simpler time, a simpler vehicle.
When oncoming drivers begin raising a hand in casual greeting as they pass, I remember this neighborly act from my small-town upbringing. Though the van and the road are new to me, I recognize this pace, this sense of community and commonality.
On reaching my campsite, I rest easy in the stillness and reminisce about times past when ruts and potholes preceded speed bumps, and when drivers raised more than just one finger to one another in common salutation.
in burlap-rough folds,
hills of scrub and juniper
bask like sun warmed snakes
Neither shy nor shrinking,
vibrant orange blooms
jostling with neighbors for territory.
First to show in a bed not yet
reclaimed from winter’s neglect;
last to go, refusing extinguishment
by autumn’s bluster.
Wallflower, who ever thought to name an
awkward, peripheral introvert after you?
dVerse quadrille prompt: bloom: write a poem of exactly 44 words and include the word “bloom.”
“Your yard gets a lot of attention from my visitors!” my neighbor calls from the edge of her manicured lawn. I survey my property, a burgeoning habitat for native plants and the native critters that feed upon them.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Someone recently asked me if I was letting the yard go wild to reduce my property taxes.”
My neighbor laughs, and then admits the nature of the “attention” to which she had alluded.
“My visitors ask, ‘Does she mean for her yard to look that way?’ ‘She’s planting all that brush intentionally?’”
bear grass and buckbrush,
coyote bush and deer fern…
and skunk cabbage? Please!
I wonder if those are the thoughts of visitors or of my neighbor, or maybe of all who see my native landscaping. So be it. I settle into the rocking chair on my back porch and watch bees – legs plump with pollen – buzz through the California poppies. Ladybugs dine on aphids among the large-leaved lupines, and a pair of mourning doves peck for seeds beneath a clump of prairie june grass.
summer solstice nears
farewell-to-spring’s pink petals
blossoming on cue
where have they gone?
why were they here?
when did they leave, or
do they linger near?
what were they seeking,
or did they come to show?
who did they encounter
before they had to go?
I search heavenward, perhaps
some day to know.
The idea of the new landscape undertaking was to plant only native species and ultimately do away with all conventional lawn surrounding my house. I began with my side yard, covering the grass and weeds with cardboard and spreading layers of wood chips over that. The scrawny “twigs” of bare root shrub and tree plantings I obtained from the soil and water conservation district barely looked alive. By the time I finished prepping and planting, my side yard resembled a miniature clear cut logging site. Not auspicious.
As the year progressed, some plants grew and blossomed, some appeared to die down and later surprised me with renewed growth, and some just flat out died. A work in progress, for sure, but it’s always fascinating to step around the corner of my house and see how my project is unfolding.
Can nature restore what my predecessors spent centuries grooming to our vain human whims? And will my tenth of an acre make a difference in the grand scheme of wildlife preservation? I don’t know, but… it’s a beginning.
bare root crab apple first autumn foliage drops mere inches to ground
Justice is blind, though
inherently judgmental.
My verdict awaits.
COVID culls with dispassion
guilty and guileless alike.
dVerse MTB: Jisei (Japanese Death Poems)
Beautiful blooming bluefields bounce, bob, bow.
Balmy breezes brush by,
blowing… bending.
Blue blossoms balance
atop tall, slender green stalks.
Buzzing, boisterous bees; bumbling busy bugs
bombard bevies of burgeoning blue bouquets.
Bad-ass bayoneted bottoms belie
beneficial blending
of pollen dust on golden legs.
“Welcome to my house!” The little boy pulls aside a low hanging branch and gestures into the shadow of an old growth cedar tree.
“What a lovely home!” I look around the imaginary room: the evergreen walls, the mossy drapes, the soft carpet of aromatic brown needles. The boy grins.
“And that’s your house over there!” He points to another tree, and then to a fallen limb. “And this is your thinking bench.”
“My thinking bench?”
“Yes. When you want to think about things, you can come out here and sit on this bench.” I sit on the limb and marvel at this three-year-old’s creativity, and it occurs to me that every home could likely benefit from a thinking bench. See? It’s got me thinking already.
roughhewn cedar bench
space to breathe unfinished thoughts
warm breeze stirs the mind
Planted last winter,
I watched for your blush of life.
You remained dormant,
or dead – Now I’m left to choose:
wait and hope, or dig you out.
dVerse Meet the Bar challenge: 5-line Japanese Poetic Forms. My first attempt at a tanka.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 