Posts Tagged gladiola

Worktable dressing.

Sometimes they help with the stories; really, they do.

Even as they’re pure distraction, to rest and pleasure the eyes

for as long as their season lasts,

as long as they are rich and luscious,

and emit from within a plush and regal depth,

every petal sumptuous, every stamen and pistil

glamorous in the infolding fibonacci wound so tight

three dimensions cannot contain their splendor.


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Walking the perimeter.

In summer, everyday, all around the house,

in pots, in beds,

on bushes, climbing trellises,

color explodes.

Full sun,

part shade,

all shade,

the white and yellow

and orange blooms

grab human eyes

and pull in pollinators.

Deep red

and rose

and lavender


then slowly fade.

Pale blue

soft lavender,


darker, to deep violet.

No blessing comes to us
as charmed
as a partner who brings forth flowers.

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Summer color wrap up.

The color’s right, but
I’m not persuaded these can be crabby apples,
half the size of grapes.

White with yellow pollen curls, one shy bee.


White and golden pollen.


Pale butter yellow, minutes from finishing.

Halloween orange and pollen gold.


Gaudy glistening glad.


Softly spikey, opening for business.

Spiral down and out, dusted from the day’s work.

A table treat, just beyond my screen,
table treasure cut.


Meanwhile, in the grass, sign of summer’s end,

previews colors to come.

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A bee’s got to do: playing with flowers.

Before color photography, this is how flowers looked.


Before colors.

I’m glad to live in the days of  color.

After colors.

Great gladness.

Even with tans and grays we can distinguish a thousands shade, so many more than fifty.
Millions is still better fun, eyeball ice cream.

Coral riff.

Nearer my glad.

Reds and yellows.

Soft focus.

Golden rose.

Love these fellows.


True colors.

What is the opposite of butter?



And gray is the new green?



I think some camera control options are meant to be left alone.

Not really.

Pink, after.

No. That’s scary. My tool box is red and it’s bright sun outside.

Use what you have.

A writer`s toolbox.

Ah, outside. Much better. Sunshine and flowers.

Blooming up.


And clutching and clambering about the blossoms, the big speckled butterfly does his business.

On the liatris.

Swallowtail at work.

From the top, with a blue streak up the middle.
It’s pollination all day long, from the flower’s point of view.

Hanging out.

Swallowtail, the dark side.

The bees are also leaving footprints everywhere.
But they’re not feeding, they’re collecting.

Bee load glade.

Bees knees.

And this lady better head home while she can still fly.
Pollen sacs are filling fast.

It is time.

Saddle bags.

Not a camera trick: the green leaf is red when the sun shoots through.
Opaque green/gray when top lit.

Sun trick.

Red through.

How we rock, when there have been too many colors to contemplate.

Mirror me.

Rocking corner.

Or back indoors, on the other side of the one-way mirror.
The witness has self-interrogated, -charged, -convicted.

Sentence pending.

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Accidental encounters of a desultory afternoon.

Inside the grand circle of mountain ridges, inside the circle of trees that ring the grass, an abundance of pretty little things.

Beneath the ironwood tree, a fungal family up-reach through the ivy.

Shroom bloom.

Marching order.

But at each center of the tanish, beigeish disks, a spot of blue.

Shroom bloom single.

Blue, why blue?

Our snake this week was a third the length, a quarter the girth, a fiftieth the mass of last week’s blacksnake.
A little garter garden guarder.

Looking left.

Two foot of pure, well, snake.

Looking both ways, tongue forked and flicking, smelling me.


Forked tongue tiny.

Between the snake and the tomatoes a pile of brush.
What’s not to lich?

Brush pile art.

Digesting slowly.

Glad to be coral, in full rut; as shameless, if a bit more delicate, than a baboon’s butt.

Coral crescendo.

Gladolia, hereabouts.

Garden guarders, like the garter, may be verygolds.

Not Solomon.

Don’t stare directly at the fractals.

So nearly stepped on, just inside the kitchen door, a chevron,
an inch and a quarter, weirdly well drafted.

Thy name is symmetry.

Joan of Arc’s shield?

Not impressive as a flyer, kind of a stumble flutter.

Forever flower of France.

Fearless symmetry.

But eclipses my poor powers.

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