Where are my crabapple blossoms?
I feel like I haven't posted in days, which isn't quite true, though I've been posting a great deal less than usual this month.
sylvan_dream came down for a visit this afternoon. We took an extremely long wander out behind the new mini malls, to the field behind the Squaresville Rec & Cultural Center. I haven't been out there since the mini malls were built, in part because I knew they would have such a dramatic impact on the landscape. Not only do they block a spectacular view, they've infringed on the general open space of the area, and abutt onto a raptor nesting area. The raptors (eagles) are still there, and appear to be nesting this spring.
The field on the other side is all a-twitter. Primarily meadowlarks, red-wing blackbirds, and starlings. (Though there are far fewer starlings since the mini malls were built, thank goodness for small blessings.) Oh yes, and the mourning doves and their inevitable city cousins, the pigeons. There was also a chorus of frogs, which is something I can't recall hearing before, punctuated by the cheeps and squeaks of a prairie dog colony. Animals are much noisier than we give them credit for being.
Sasha was delighted by the face sculptures hidden along the river and in the grass along the walk. We stopped by the grocery store for soy sauce on the way back to the house and had noodle salad for dinner.
Sasha is such marvelous company, I'm always afraid I talk to much, but I really like being with her because I never feel like she's judging me. She just lets me be and generally seems to like and accept me as I am, which is a marvelous gift. I hope she feels the same way, because she is a fantastic, and rare, individual.
My crabapple tree is not blooming this year. There are a few peeks of pink in the higher branches, but it is not revealing its god-like glory this spring. Most springs it is a deity in pink blossoms, giving off a faint hum from the bees buzzing among its branches, so a-flutter with butterflies that the whole picture is one of gentle sound and motion and general fecundity. I write a poem for it every year.
This year, I'm struggling with the idea that this season's lack of bloom may be a metaphor for my life. I'm no stranger to the outer beauty/ inner corruption metaphor. The last two crabapple poems have been tied up with the longing for my life to be as beautiful as that tree. One asks, "these blossoms serve their purpose, why not me?", the other ends, "autumn soon comes, bearing fruit both hard and sour," but I have very little practice in reversing the metaphor: outer fruitlessness juxtaposed with innter harvest. And don't tell me about fallow seasons, I know we can't bloom and be fruitful all the time. I just feel I'm overdue for that kind of god-like glory, descending for a season, a thing of beauty for its own sake, and not for anyone else's.
If I come up with something good, I'll let you know.
sylvan_dream came down for a visit this afternoon. We took an extremely long wander out behind the new mini malls, to the field behind the Squaresville Rec & Cultural Center. I haven't been out there since the mini malls were built, in part because I knew they would have such a dramatic impact on the landscape. Not only do they block a spectacular view, they've infringed on the general open space of the area, and abutt onto a raptor nesting area. The raptors (eagles) are still there, and appear to be nesting this spring.
The field on the other side is all a-twitter. Primarily meadowlarks, red-wing blackbirds, and starlings. (Though there are far fewer starlings since the mini malls were built, thank goodness for small blessings.) Oh yes, and the mourning doves and their inevitable city cousins, the pigeons. There was also a chorus of frogs, which is something I can't recall hearing before, punctuated by the cheeps and squeaks of a prairie dog colony. Animals are much noisier than we give them credit for being.
Sasha was delighted by the face sculptures hidden along the river and in the grass along the walk. We stopped by the grocery store for soy sauce on the way back to the house and had noodle salad for dinner.
Sasha is such marvelous company, I'm always afraid I talk to much, but I really like being with her because I never feel like she's judging me. She just lets me be and generally seems to like and accept me as I am, which is a marvelous gift. I hope she feels the same way, because she is a fantastic, and rare, individual.
My crabapple tree is not blooming this year. There are a few peeks of pink in the higher branches, but it is not revealing its god-like glory this spring. Most springs it is a deity in pink blossoms, giving off a faint hum from the bees buzzing among its branches, so a-flutter with butterflies that the whole picture is one of gentle sound and motion and general fecundity. I write a poem for it every year.
This year, I'm struggling with the idea that this season's lack of bloom may be a metaphor for my life. I'm no stranger to the outer beauty/ inner corruption metaphor. The last two crabapple poems have been tied up with the longing for my life to be as beautiful as that tree. One asks, "these blossoms serve their purpose, why not me?", the other ends, "autumn soon comes, bearing fruit both hard and sour," but I have very little practice in reversing the metaphor: outer fruitlessness juxtaposed with innter harvest. And don't tell me about fallow seasons, I know we can't bloom and be fruitful all the time. I just feel I'm overdue for that kind of god-like glory, descending for a season, a thing of beauty for its own sake, and not for anyone else's.
If I come up with something good, I'll let you know.