Bees everywhere. Sparring in the irises. Lurking on the back door handle (ouch!). Patrolling the newly cut grass. Mostly, however, they are in the pear tree.
There’s a varied crop of weeds, should the bees grow weary of pear nectar.
And, should my camera grow tired of bees, there are plenty of other visitors in the yard. I hope these two decide to stay. I would love a nest to watch!
This crocus is a bit late because it had to penetrate the husks of last year’s ginger lilies. Most of my poems happen like this, sprouting in the dark. Pale, nebulous tendrils of urgency. A few die in this phase, too weak to persevere. Others toughen in time, burrowing through sheaves of revision. They emerge with varying degrees of definition and emphasis. The best ones bloom.
One of my recent poems followed a much different course.
A few days ago, I watched part of a program about ancient gods. The segment dealt with Medusa. Later in the day, unable to get Medusa off my mind, I googled her. I chose the first link, which was Wikipedia. Then I clicked another link, and another, and another, straying through topics that eventually had nothing to do with Medusa. I tired of links before I tired of reading, and my mouse wandered into a cache of poetry bookmarks. I soon landed on the vox poetica prompts page.*
The current prompt reverberated for me. Until that moment, my rambling Medusa research had yielded only a vague field of oscillating ideas. The photo collapsed it into a poem particle, which coalesced, with very little input on my part, into “Ceto, in Decline, Calls Out to Medusa”. It’s the rarest type of poem, in my world. One that writes itself and requires only fidgety revisions to clarify meaning and capitalize on sound. (It will remain posted on the prompts page until the prompt changes.)
I’m always delighted by creations, like the Medusa poem, that occur as random accidents. Like this robin photo, which was a mistake, a miscalculation of light that produced an image I could never have planned. I’m happy to live in such a world, where serendipity matters.
* If you aren’t familiar with vox poetica, I recommend setting aside some time to explore. Publisher Annmarie Lockhart is a tireless advocate for poetry and poets. Her website is a treasure. There’s a new poem every day, an archived poemblog, links to her blog talk radio show, and a number of different ways to contribute. If you write poetry, why not submit something?
There’s so much going on that it’s hard to know where to look. If I focus my camera on the vultures wheeling overhead, I miss the carpenter bees zooming underfoot. There are crane flies mating and irises blooming and new visitations of wonder in every corner of the yard.
The day is beyond beautiful. How about a nap in the sun? Or a lovely, itchy roll?
How about a brief tour of the yard?
Along with dashing outside every ten minutes, I’ve been catching up and cooking and generally enjoying my day. What’s more, I received blog award nominations from Kathryn Martins. (It’s okay. Really…go ahead and click on the link! I’ll wait while you read a few of her posts. Or all of them. At least take a few minutes to meet her dogs.)
I tried to follow these awards back to their source, but never found a starting place. I think they are wonderfully mysterious. Where did they come from? Better yet, where else will they go, once I’ve passed them on?
They come with a few rules. I’m supposed to thank the person who nominated me.
Thank you, kathrymartins1! (There’s the link again, in case you missed it the first time…)
Then I’m supposed to say seven things about myself. Since I received these awards on such a beautiful day, I’ll say seven things that mattered today:
1. My father died of a heart attack when I was fifteen. He was fifty-two at the time of his death. Today I had blood drawn to monitor my cholesterol levels.
2. After my lab appointment, I made the mistake of stopping at the grocery. It’s hard enough to be sensible in the grocery when I’m well fed, but after a twelve hour fast it’s virtually impossible. Cookies, anyone?
3. And speaking of the grocery, at least I remembered the things that I meant to buy. The chili smells delicious.
4. I detest shoes. All shoes. It was such a relief, when I got home today, to confirm that it’s warm enough for bare feet. I’ll need socks, later tonight, but not right now.
5. I saw the yard’s first honey bees today. My bee-spotting abilities are directly related to my shoe aversion.
6. I want to finish my day’s work before dusk, because yesterday evening three rabbits played a hilarious, rowdy game of pounce and chase in the back yard. I’m hoping they’ll return tonight!
7. I want to be a writer when I grow up. Doesn’t everyone?
Finally, I’m supposed to pass the awards to seven other bloggers. That’s the best part! (And it involves more links!)
Seasonings – Just a Little Poetry by Betty Hayes Albright
Persephone Writes by Angela Cybulski (kathrynmartins1 nominated this blog, as well!)
My husband mowed last weekend. It had to be done. The result is a fairly even swath of topped weeds, broken here and there by dandelions.
The mower’s blade shaved off an entire generation of henbit and purple dead-nettle. Taking advantage of their new access to sunlight, a shy crop of ground-hugging weeds have bloomed in unison.
I’m frustrated by the yard’s new blooms, but not because they are weeds. I’m frustrated because they are unknown weeds. Few things bother me more than not knowing.
While I’m reasonably certain that the white petals above belong to chickweed, my wildflower guide and online research have failed to provide a name for the pale purple flower below. I suspect it may be a type of speedwell, based on those four striped petals. But the hairy leaves? They don’t seem to fit.
What am I missing? Any ideas?
Rae Spencer 