Posts Tagged deer

Seasonal affect.

Alas, the deer do really like the glads.
These are all stubs now after the two does with twins
and the single mother came hungry in the night.

We were allowed to cut a few fronds
before the conversion to venison.

The marigolds stand sentry,
repelling some classes of pests, or so the story goes.

Just pretty in the late afternoon.

Probably there’s no discussion between these two,
just a leaf rolled up and over,
unless it is a snake disguised in molt.

These guys bloom upside down
and close their petals in seeming modesty
most of the hours of the day.

The cosmos bloomed over the tomatoes in gay abandon.
They’re not, apparently, on the approved cervid menu,
unlike nearly everything else.
It isn’t likely the fence offers them much protection.

The pines would mark the middle of a forest of pines
if all the seeds on all the cones struck dirt
and weren’t mowed down and weren’t pushed back
by the equally eager advancing clusters
of locusts, poplars, maples, and oaks.

If flowers were subject to tavern regulations
these petals would snap shut and this stumble bee
be forbidden from loading more pollen.

When they grow beyond supporting ties
and their own strength,
the snapped-off heads may live again,
for a day, as a table bouquet.

Afterwords, with all the ret, they’ll settle
on top of the dead-head heap.

Journey’s end for all the worn blossoms;
many stages yet to pass
in the transition back into the soil
they sprang from,
but their last transits as discrete entities.
Entropy moves in for the easy win
as all the structures degrade and simplify
until an accidental or an intended seed
blows up through the detritus
and declares life’s victory in a fresh year.

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Dear to us.


The needle artist changes, now and then,
from inking shoulders and haunches
and text on ribs,
to cotton floss on fabric,
achieves an accidental harmony with oil and ceramic
at the destination.

If there are accidents.

Seven altogether,
but they tuck beside behind each other,
under the hornbeam
testing the english ivy for fodder,
both of the single mothers, as it were,
with the twins and their mother.

Absent from our local herd today, only the buck,
who’s never far but rarely in frame with the rest,
most of whom probably are his progeny.

They are too unafraid of us,
their primary predator,
because we strew cracked corn on the grass,
their primary benefactors,
though it is intended for the five blue-black crows

who do not trust us
because they have not forgotten my bb gun
from 60 years ago
and they do not forgive.

But they’ll eat the corn.

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Shared fruits.

Creatures great and small

tracked the chilies

and cherry tomatoes;
they gnawed the beets and potatoes

and destroyed the sunflowers

before the first bloom.

We lost most of the blueberries, probably 50 quarts, to three avian cartels:
the blue-jay gang, the catbird mob, and the brown-thrasher syndicate.

Some fresh magic comes up free to compensate,
a mushroom with the face of a planet that’s not one of ours,

or a globe of bubble glass.
It’s all still good under the moon.

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