Posts Tagged rose

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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Early summer’s chromatic abundance,

is everywhere,

in wild exuberance;

somewhere there’s a bleak

landscape of grays and browns

that all the bright colors have been

sucked away from and sent here;

all the shades, all the strategies,

to reach towards the sun

luxuriant unfurling

of flower DNA into petals

presenting their organs of generation
to all pollinators,

 come up and see me, right now.

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Autumn weeds.

Colors just happen in the fall.


Abundance of don’t-forget-to-touch-mes,

 but calming now, no longer explosive.

Truth, beauty, decay.


Sumac works through orange


into its final reds.


Spent and pulling back, residue of bloom.

Quiet all summer, the chimney rose seizes the day.

Still just a scatter, it’s early days.


Weeds are flowers

you don’t have to cultivate.

Sometimes the best colors


aren’t hardly colors at all.

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Easy living, flora.

The tall flowers, all at once.


A rose leaning languorously on the wire.


Everything is full out.


The day lilies go




and on


in an almost silly abundance.


Hydrangea row


shows no signs of slacking off


in any of the varieties.


On and on.


The timid little flowers in the rail pot have filled out.


The under story is at maximum,
from the ground reaching up among the low branches of the trees,
all the little weeds, all the middle weeds, all the giant weeds.


And this, of course, is the first sign of the end of summer
the fullness before the finish.

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Blooming yard.

walkabout, this afternoon, to find deep red with busy bee,


pale red with kanji characters,

poppy world full of self,

rising from a bed thought lost,


while yellow bush roses,

and blue fingers, which our maidens know by a grosser name,


showing some purple shared, in the same pot


or shared with satiny iridescence


shimmering around a black hole,

in purple waves


and glitter,

while at rows end, marigold companions

and almost a blooming leaf, twinning stacks climb orthogonally towards sun

and a tannish leaf kind of flowerish

all of which have names that are common
and the uncommon names are all scientific

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Here and there, the business of spring getting done.

New arbor for the remote rose,

replacing the rotting and crumbled wooden slats
with a mosaic firefly top.


The glassy glint from the gravel under foot,
was a thumb-sized hunk of mica
that sheared into a hundred pieces at a touch.


The older bloom of the kitchen amaryllis.

The new bloom.

Little violets in the grass, in patches here and there.

The queen of weeds, ruling a million sister blooms.

Plum gnarly.

Several human spirits are trapped under the bark,
rather lumpy spirits.

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Floral finale presentation.

The first hard frost is the real end, and that could be weeks.

But all the flowering plants prepare their final bursts.
Many are done already, a few will hang on until their petals freeze.

The chimley rose saved the best for last.


Since staked up, a mowing near fatality.


No more blooms to come, but we’re going out grand.


Will even a frost take down the lemony mint from its summer-long peak?


But the gatekeeper of the herb garden does not care about seasons.
A hunk of cloudy quartz shares some faces with other entities
but marks the gatepost without concern for any of us.


Nor rain nor sleet nor hail — never mind, it’s quite all right.

I’ll just stand here and watch y’all wilt and wither one more time.

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Hitchhiker’s Guide — walkabout with snail and flowers and blacksnake.

A tortoise can stretch it out, when life depends; but a snail not so much.
Maybe the head of the mushroom grows faster than the snail can run, but how shall she dismount?

Hitch hike.

Ticket to ride.

Six feet of blacksnake in the grass points to the tree with six bird feeders.
Can he unhinge his jaw enough to swallow a gold finch or a nuthatch?
We used to see whole eggs along the gullet every time we’d relocate the guy half a mile away
who’d returned to rob our chicken coop again.
It took a week to digest his dinner and crawl back.
He discouraged the broody hens better than we could.

Six feet long.

Pointing at …

 Maybe it isn’t birds. The feeders are a creature magnet, even for rabbits and deer.
It could be squirrels, gray or red or the white-belly fliers (when you fly at night, wear white).
Or ground squirrels or kangaroo mice or Noreegan wharf rats (so far from a wharf, so far from Norway).

Not only birds.

All my length.

A couple dozen tree species crowd this brief segment of the ring around the lawn.
The largest temperate rain forest is in Alaska.
I think we’re next: not many steps to fill the leaf book of a fourth-grade science class.


Leaf scape.

A table rose, for company, two feet away this instant.
White, the outside of the petals, inside hot fuchsia, as my love is.

Watching me.

Red, red rose.

The black flower is in the house.

On the table.

Black velvet.

The red outside.
The thick sticky golden pollen is the same.

In the yard.

Velvet red.

And a little ways into the woods, the Dr. Seuss flowers stretch thin and wide, enticing.

Seuss flowerl.

Wood note wild.

Such abundance here, where peace and beauty overflow.
But threats surround us that are imminent—to our earth and food and water and air.

Amid the rumble of half a hundred human wars and war’s alarms,
I know I can’t be young again, but still shall hold her in my arms.

Salaam. Shalom.

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