tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73087768833875089732024-03-05T18:55:35.741-08:00Journal of a Thousand ThingsAmy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-40345874950896498272020-09-23T08:41:00.002-07:002020-09-23T08:41:31.320-07:00Glimpse of the Moon<p> Last night the far-away moon looked like far-away winter. The season is drawing closer, though really cold weather is probably some six weeks off, here on the ground. But the moon itself was obscured by a glittering veil of frosty cloud. I fear the yellow hue described in this brief haiku is from the wildfire smoke which has become a subtle, somber presence, nature’s plea that we realize just how closely our lives and actions are interlocked across the world.</p><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Moon Glimpse</span></h1><p>High ice blurs the moon<br />With wan yellow frost melting<br />Into deep black night.</p>Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-14826784865840614512020-09-23T08:41:00.001-07:002020-09-23T08:41:09.775-07:00A Field Full of Asters<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWg2Wji6e6LPBHpZ-m9OTTBRatTq12M_jur4gPjUbANitNkJAp2Y4Y1ClmtPt4DcblgjLtAq9iqZVd7DFGufCWdXwRboPqUOz6dcPoWRrvfIi_k-q7fAIGRjY5cLpGVVzXvBRmYfL-G9Gu/s2048/skipper_407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWg2Wji6e6LPBHpZ-m9OTTBRatTq12M_jur4gPjUbANitNkJAp2Y4Y1ClmtPt4DcblgjLtAq9iqZVd7DFGufCWdXwRboPqUOz6dcPoWRrvfIi_k-q7fAIGRjY5cLpGVVzXvBRmYfL-G9Gu/w512-h640/skipper_407.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">September is like March in its capacity to shift from lion to lamb… and back again. Lately it has been leaping from jacket cold to shirtsleeves warm each day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But warm or cold, it is the season when frost asters (Symphyotrichum pilosum) come into flower here. Some four feet tall, a myriad of dainty flowers on wiry, woody stems, they fill the old pasture just now. It needs a good mowing or perhaps some goats to trim it down and make the grass grow instead. But the asters are an autumn delight in their own right. They spread a delicate white sheen over the hilltop.</div></div><h1 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h1><h1 style="text-align: left;">Wild Asters</h1><div><div>There is white on the pasture where frost asters blow,</div><div>There’s a sparkle of silver with green grass below;</div><div>As September is waning, first warm and now chill,</div><div>There’s a glimmer like winter on top of the hill.</div><div><br /></div><div>Still the sunshine is bright and it’s warm at midday,</div><div>Though at night the coyotes and owls are at play</div><div>While the breezes shift northward and moonlight moves south</div><div>And the trees are fast thinning from late summer’s drouth.</div><div><br /></div><div>A slow tinting of yellow--September’s own gleam--</div><div>Lies across the bright fields and the trees, while they dream</div><div>Of the storms of midsummer, of winter’s pale cold,</div><div>While the sunflowers waken and blink in bright gold.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is white on the pasture; the cold is not here,</div><div>But the asters are whispering winter is near;</div><div>Now the sunlight lies warm on their silver and white;</div><div>They will bloom till the mornings rise clear and frost-bright. </div></div>Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-12564288151595068482020-09-20T17:28:00.001-07:002020-09-20T17:34:32.655-07:00A Poem of September<h1 style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjw4eaZxW-mWe3MCptpP_UiibKK90SKLP1DuBiFjSpWNuchutYxVFam9IBHjpTQ2_VyqK55QRasxhkN5DTKCoQyKjpAXIj07opgdXKFs27jrnAt5EZsD4eT1V9C7_yPir1mMclJSUu8sdL/s2048/5asunflower_0059.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1362" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjw4eaZxW-mWe3MCptpP_UiibKK90SKLP1DuBiFjSpWNuchutYxVFam9IBHjpTQ2_VyqK55QRasxhkN5DTKCoQyKjpAXIj07opgdXKFs27jrnAt5EZsD4eT1V9C7_yPir1mMclJSUu8sdL/w426-h640/5asunflower_0059.JPG" width="426" /></a></div></h1><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Spectral, serif;"><span style="color: #cc804c; font-size: 19px;">Gold and Gray</span></span></h1><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-9c91e788-7fff-5cf3-9420-1210c2f1869b"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sunflowers, but no sun,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just low gray overhead--</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The air half-mellow and half-chill.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The grass is tangled</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In amongst the raindrops.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The swallows’ backs are slick</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With darting in and out</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While showers fall;</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the hawks sit rumpled,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">High in a tree, and glum.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Meantime, the clover grows,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Drinking from the day.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The sunflowers dangle </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Their gold tresses grassward </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And wait the sun.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span></div>Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-20685023715725594252020-09-05T21:29:00.000-07:002020-09-05T21:29:33.749-07:00My Bookshelves, My Life<h1 style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnvJWJvYQgQntHvm5vg43KFySH9FJrLMY5ZQlVsRJoGzw6FC5spRqU-z6Wp8Fr4k8XvvRgTZregi21NQteR8xpKUJe719mwA6YZObDEIKIuDZEUcx69BETYD0z6p4e-buXMoXcgLFFuqA/s2048/bookshelf.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1805" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnvJWJvYQgQntHvm5vg43KFySH9FJrLMY5ZQlVsRJoGzw6FC5spRqU-z6Wp8Fr4k8XvvRgTZregi21NQteR8xpKUJe719mwA6YZObDEIKIuDZEUcx69BETYD0z6p4e-buXMoXcgLFFuqA/w441-h500/bookshelf.jpeg" width="441" /></a></div></h1><p>Books shoved upon my open metal shelves<br />In gracious disarray, half-ordered pride,<br />From garden wisdom to long tales of elves<br />And men. Here lays of long ago collide<br />With knitter’s charts and histories of Spain,<br />While dictionary takes its half a foot<br />Of space laid crosswise and against the grain,<br />Its pages outward and the contest moot<br />Between red Webster’s and the OED<br />“Concise” and used, the spoils of a sale<br />And watchful eye, delighted, quick to see<br />The treasure for five dollars, secret grail<br />Of my collection. On the top a bowl<br />Of antique painted violets commands<br />A stack of brightly pictured books, a whole<br />Array of brilliant rooms from far-off lands.<br />I think of all the worlds and knowledge mine,<br />Bright spine against bright spine, from roses’ care,<br />Equations for ceramic glaze design,<br />To bitter histories we scarcely dare<br />Remember and must yet more surely not<br />Forget. How strange to think that all these things<br />Are simply printed, ink on paper, bought<br />From libraries for pennies for the wings<br />They bring us (riding through the dangerous night<br />With d’Artagnan or slaying Grendel’s dam<br />Beneath the sea or simply digging bright<br />Egyptian treasures; how to knit a tam <br />Stacked just above whole histories of rhymes.)<br />Within their pages half my memories<br />Reside: escape from pain through distant times<br />As much as through courageous certainties<br />Of those who’ve faced down horror and stood straight.<br />Within these pages all my heroes rest<br />And ancient gardens flourish, while the greats<br />Paint still lives or write songs. Old books are best.</p><p style="text-align: center;">------------------------------------</p><p><i>I was musing during a sleepless dawn this morning, looking across the room at my shelves of books. It’s such a compact space to contain so much, so many worlds of thought and fact and wonder.</i></p><p><i>For those interested, here is a list of some of the less-obvious titles I have referred to in my poem.</i></p><p>Colour Schemes for the Flower Garden<i> by Gertrude Jekyll, a recent acquisition</i></p><p>The Complete Rosarian <i>by Norman Young</i></p><p>Roses<i> by Wilhelm Kordes, long-sought and finally located online for a reasonable sum</i></p><p><i>“tales of elves and men”, not only those of J. R. R. Tolkein, but an assortment of favorite legends ranging from the old Norse tales to those of Edmund Spenser</i></p><p>A History of Imperial Spain<i>, which proved not to be on the shelf at the moment after all</i></p><p>Nefertiti Lived Here<i> by Mary Chubb, an account of early archaeological work at Tel el-Amarna</i></p><p>A Treasury of Irish Poetry in the English Tongue</p><p><i>Alice Starmore’s </i>Book of Fair Isle Knitting</p><p>Clay and Glazes for the Potter<i> by Daniel Rhodes</i></p><p>Casa Yucatan <i>by Wytinski and Carr</i></p><p>What We Knew<i> by Johnson and Reuband, subtitled </i>Terror, Mass Murder, and Everyday Life in Nazi Germany</p><p>Stories and Prose Poems<i> by Alexander Solzhenitsyn</i></p><p>The Poetic Works of Sir Walter Scott</p><p><i>and, of course, many more…</i></p><p><i>It’s a curious collection, and its contents say much about me, I suppose, while saying almost as much about the various sources of my library: online purchases new but more often used, library sales from an assortment of “Friends of the Library” in three different states and across perhaps twenty years. Actual bookstore purchases have been sadly rare; but some of my best ceramics books have come directly from ceramic supply stores, which often seem to stock quite good titles in their field. Then there is the occasional gift book, while gardening books arrive from anywhere and everywhere, slipping into my “shopping carts” online by simply whispering to me that they need a good second home.</i></p><p><i>Ah well, the sun is now high and I must go on to other work today. I hope you have enjoyed this little tour.</i></p>Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-62512068688319584642020-08-21T08:56:00.001-07:002020-08-21T08:56:07.007-07:00Kumihimo: a Song of Weaving<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Silken threads,
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Crimson, gold,
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fingers plucking
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Like a lute
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Makes music
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of rich colour.
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Arpeggios
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">In flowing gold
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Woven through
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Harmonies
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">In crimson,
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fingers deftly
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Plaiting silence
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Into silken song.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">------------</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>One of my long-loved interests is working with textile creation. For me, to date, this has meant mostly handknitting and handspinning. However, weaving also fascinates me, though I have only done a little of it. Yesterday I discovered this video that thrilled my eyes and heart. So this morning I wrote a poem about it.
Kumihimo is a traditional Japanese form of braiding, or plaiting. Threads are finger-woven to form cords, ribbons, and narrow strips of cloth for sashes and such. In the video, we can see the threads being gathered, braided, and then beaten tightly, row upon row, as the piece is formed on the bias to make a supple fabric. This video shows the weaver working on a takadai to make a flat-woven strip in crimson and gold.
Here is the video that inspired the poem:</i>
</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/uXF_-eXRnUo" width="320" youtube-src-id="uXF_-eXRnUo"></iframe></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-72a5ff97-7fff-e06d-5d33-281b96665776"><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-32504286314303022582020-08-09T10:34:00.000-07:002020-08-09T10:34:54.598-07:00Spenser Meets an Inchworm<p class="graf graf--p" name="f061">I find an inchworm on my shirt at last,<br />Parading up the stripes from blue to white<br />To blue. She rules the inches, wriggling past<br />With head exploring windward. Treading light<br />Upon my shirtfront she propounds, polite,<br />My need for newer garments. Heartened, I <br />Am happy she shall take my measure — quite<br />An opportunity, I’ll not deny;<br />She stands upon her back toes to descry<br />At distance and so checks me out,<br />Then loops herself to saunter forward, spry.<br />I need new shirts; of that she has no doubt,<br />Nor I. I thank her for her work; she rides — <br />My tiny ruler — on my shirt outside.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggP5ckr6ClKnFno9NbT8t6XHrZD1d3Q5tvzFssDmps6bWc69_Rn180sqdztoz6YefzriEk9wpTig2L3lI5iZuA9EvL3ARRbXsGmm0wEfhJq-8yr210tzI6eLtOeMJu0Fbns-6b3kSfbUJT/s2048/inchwormbysarah_9813_edited.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1609" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggP5ckr6ClKnFno9NbT8t6XHrZD1d3Q5tvzFssDmps6bWc69_Rn180sqdztoz6YefzriEk9wpTig2L3lI5iZuA9EvL3ARRbXsGmm0wEfhJq-8yr210tzI6eLtOeMJu0Fbns-6b3kSfbUJT/s640/inchwormbysarah_9813_edited.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cut-paper and ink illustration kindly supplied by my sister Sarah Myers; used by permission.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="graf graf--p" name="f061"><i>After writing this poem, I realized that perhaps the tradition with which I grew up is not as widely known as I have assumed. This bit of folklore says that if an inchworm crawls across you (with its peculiar, looping gait), it is measuring you for new clothes.</i></p><p class="graf graf--p" name="f061"><i>Doing a quick bit of research for this post, I find there are other traditions as well; but this is the version with which I am familiar and from which I wrote the poem. Take it as you please!</i></p><p class="graf graf--p" name="f061"><i>I congratulate myself that at any rate this may be the first time in history that anyone has written a Spenserian sonnet about an inchworm… That might be good for some reason, but I have no idea what.</i></p>Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-14498131355837777922020-08-07T09:19:00.005-07:002020-08-07T09:25:41.278-07:00Hush, It's the Dog Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEAfCwVpBB9746Q_IQjmTAo7u0gajseFOAIm7ir3tb6GjSE33iAupE-p8pcYddNYlmfL4Ifavel8wVe98OT6FMzWcFLUPGyfsDnYV6btQVEPq1LL2rzZ6uqILy5MGvxIUaN1PWvptBR3E/s2628/IMG_20200806_192644692-01.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2628" data-original-width="2416" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEAfCwVpBB9746Q_IQjmTAo7u0gajseFOAIm7ir3tb6GjSE33iAupE-p8pcYddNYlmfL4Ifavel8wVe98OT6FMzWcFLUPGyfsDnYV6btQVEPq1LL2rzZ6uqILy5MGvxIUaN1PWvptBR3E/s640/IMG_20200806_192644692-01.jpeg" /></a></div><h2 style="text-align: left;">August Days</h2><div><div>The dampened hush </div><div>Of low, gray, stationary clouds</div><div>Mutes the songs of summer-weary birds,</div><div>While the hum of an old AC</div><div>Is panting its way through the dog days.</div><div><br /></div><div>Late summer muses in thin voices</div><div>That drip down, one by one, </div><div>From a too-tolerant firmament, </div><div>Wet and waiting</div><div>While the earth rolls slowly over</div><div>Like a sleeping dog away from too much sun.</div></div><div><br /></div><span></span><div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>This poem was written yesterday in response to a prompt on the </i>Weeds and Wildflowers<i> publication on Medium.com. I don’t follow writing prompts very often, but I found that this one certainly stirred the inspiration in my brain rather like stirring cream into a cup of tea. That is, it flowed together at once even if it didn’t entirely combine immediately.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The prompt was simply to use one of the two words “hush” or “solo”. And it was being presented in the context of the month of August, though I’m sure that feature was optional.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I have a line knocking about in my head for a “solo” poem, but this one for “hush” almost wrote itself as I listened to the air conditioner throbbing away at the back of our house. A fair amount of rework occurred later to improve clarity and flow, especially to bring the two stanzas together. I was happy with the results…</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>For those in rather different climates, the lines “From a too-tolerant firmament, Wet and waiting” refers to the often-oppressive humidity of a Midwestern (or Southern) summer, as the so-called dew point rises with the temperature. This means that the atmosphere can hold more and more moisture as the temperature rises, before reaching the point where it is saturated and must release some of that moisture in the form of cooling rain.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I am happy to note that despite the poem, the past few days have been a good deal cooler than preceding weeks!</i></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHb9jdTK0TeaoWbMaZb96TR93E9yUR-3txrVYcyDDO-idPVfm_HvblLRMynd7lUPDomVMybBZIvqU5uMefft1E64tBe7avD_6LJKIeod65F2_Rq_jBTDUAVj7xzNYhu3kAGSAelBQTd38B/s2628/IMG_20200806_192644692-01.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><br /></a></div><i><br /></i></div>Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-37596511836298466222020-08-06T20:48:00.011-07:002020-08-06T20:52:08.210-07:00Meditations in Late Summer<p><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6016" height="533" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDhklkuw_vtKqhorDpKE8FUSY3TFntO0YBm7BCkdtJMhNSyfhjehdKea5Py6d-4SJ_oViq_VgOoH9gOL4Wzn-TxAsNq1elVf_lRCVKWEEebrVKVMw-OFMx0Gmrjeg2pNxNLPaYQl7yFBy/w800-h533/5hesperaloe_0027+%25281%2529.JPG" width="800" /><br /></p><p><i>Thoughts from an August morning...</i><br /><br />But do not pluck the flowers that remain,<br />Nor swear they will return again with rain,<br />Nor seek a thousand blooms upon their stems<br />Forever clipped with rocks about their hems<br />As garden grew for supercilious eyes<br />Alone, and not for its own joy to rise<br />Up to the sun and scatter to the breeze<br />The heart-dust of its summer seeds, to please<br />The birds, the soil, the moving air, and me.<br />For I take pleasure as the plants, to see<br />The birth and life, the fruited pods that break<br />To treasure meant for spring's and summer's sake<br />Tomorrow and next year and on and on.<br />And so my own life seeks a distant dawn:<br />Let scatter all my seeds each summer's close,<br />Nor squander them to see just one more rose<br />Before the winter, for it is not wise.<br />Let come each season with its sweet surprise;<br />Next spring you will see bloom from ten years past,<br />From seeds that waited but have borne at last<br />Their bower of bloom and verdant leaves, their gift<br />Of strength and sun on errant time adrift.</p><p></p>Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-17922242539922354352016-11-27T21:05:00.002-08:002016-11-27T21:05:43.510-08:00The Gingersnaps<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">from an old Swedish recipe...</td></tr>
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Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-51547249652542749742016-08-28T11:25:00.002-07:002016-08-28T11:25:21.380-07:00Blue Hour, Bougainvillea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-1568528346694355482016-08-25T22:38:00.002-07:002016-08-25T22:38:34.932-07:00Morning with a Butterfly II<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-62498718673355619952016-08-25T22:34:00.001-07:002016-08-25T22:38:55.244-07:00Morning with a Butterfly I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-549935636169213122016-08-07T11:08:00.005-07:002016-08-07T11:28:33.477-07:00A Nest in the Clouds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDPRSBmzzRJr8hMXRuItNEb5fFSG6pwCWeJvZ2xBY0BtGniE3v3zogePAcYTE3FFFETb94TKR66xxcgj-kh7gRcwCLp0DAWFuoaWIQPLvt5Z-n0UsmE4IuAqxtGicksghUEKcpZJ9iP0D/s1600/40nest_0308.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="journal of a thousand things, amy myers, photography, desert, sonoran, birds nest, arroyo, cholla, cactus, opuntia" border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDPRSBmzzRJr8hMXRuItNEb5fFSG6pwCWeJvZ2xBY0BtGniE3v3zogePAcYTE3FFFETb94TKR66xxcgj-kh7gRcwCLp0DAWFuoaWIQPLvt5Z-n0UsmE4IuAqxtGicksghUEKcpZJ9iP0D/s640/40nest_0308.JPG" title="" width="640" /></a></div>
While not exactly a castle, it was certainly a well-defended home...<br />
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...perched amid the upper branches of one of the prickliest of plants, a well-grown cholla cactus armed with long thorns and, less visible, the tiny, vicious glochids that characterize the Opuntia species.<br />
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I'm not sure what kind of bird built the nest, which is covered over the top and has only a small round entrance.<br />
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It did not appear to be in use just now in early August, but it had certainly been a fine home, built with care.<br />
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Thanks to my <a href="http://otheroeuvre.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">sister</a> for discovering this dwelling down in a nearby arroyo. See also my post at the <a href="https://smallsunnygarden.blogspot.com/2016/08/a-walk-in-desert.html" target="_blank">Small Sunny Garden</a> for a more complete look at the desert on a dry August morning.<br />
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<br />Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-90231621160364914382016-08-02T17:50:00.006-07:002016-08-02T17:50:52.908-07:00The Sunflowers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Bright yellow and brown against blue, blue sky...<br />
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...and a bee.<br />
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<br />Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-13913014337559025272016-06-27T22:05:00.001-07:002016-06-27T22:08:45.204-07:00Beginning of the RainsFor weeks it has been hot. Harsh, stale heat, made of sun beating relentlessly on stone and gravel. Beating down across miles of empty mountain and lowland. Barren, dead winds, anxiously hurrying eastward, oblivious of anything beneath them. Withering, suffocating winds that dry the mouth and make the heart faint.<br />
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The change began this morning, when the sun shone through a gray veil that made all brilliant beneath it. The intensity of the rays were tempered at last by moisture in the far reaches of the sky. The air was still hot, but more grateful. There was movement high above the earth.<br />
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And now it is night. Different scents are in the air now. It is cool, warm, cool, warm, as the breezes move or fail.<br />
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The wind is no longer a dead, hostile thing. It is a living, breathing, fluttering thing. It hovers about, wrapping itself in my hair. It seems to live as birds live, fly as they fly, caress as they caress.<br />
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It is faintly moist, and it is water that lies behind all life. How many hundred miles lie between me and the ocean? Yet these winds bring its promise and fulfilment, the rumor of mighty waters in another world. In a few hours, a few days, rain comes...<br />
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Last night and tonight I heard toads beginning to tune their songs. This is their time of year, when love and birth and growth are all completed within a week or two.<br />
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The coyotes are unusually quiet.<br />
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Far away in the east, along the horizon, there is lightning, and it is red.<br />
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<br />Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-79461588808179637242016-06-14T21:49:00.000-07:002016-06-14T21:49:34.407-07:00The Shell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-10086530944299640072016-05-20T14:10:00.000-07:002016-05-20T14:10:32.027-07:00Minimally<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Against a cloudy sky, flowering stems of gaura (Oenothera lindheimeri) wave in the garden.</div>
Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-3090691685734164092016-05-18T21:54:00.001-07:002016-05-18T21:54:25.403-07:00Study of Spikes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-83792655886205806692016-05-12T20:47:00.003-07:002016-05-12T20:47:36.005-07:00Spring Sunflower<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sunflower "Cutting Gold" in bloom in May 2016</div>
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Photographs taken 05-07-16, straight out of camera</div>
Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-88478849517063585372016-04-23T21:55:00.000-07:002016-04-23T21:55:31.420-07:00Sweet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-1672321714486979102016-04-12T17:01:00.005-07:002016-04-12T17:01:52.501-07:00Red on Blue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ladybug on Salvia farinacea in the garden...</div>
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Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-3617338560558336582016-04-09T00:21:00.000-07:002016-04-09T00:21:32.380-07:00The Blue Hibiscus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-36487314674740234592016-04-09T00:17:00.000-07:002016-04-09T00:17:09.256-07:00Just Before the Rain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-29020034741393254552016-03-21T17:56:00.000-07:002016-03-21T18:00:24.421-07:00Orion<h4>
Orion</h4>
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There you rise yet,</div>
<div>
My dear old friend Orion,</div>
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Huntsman of the winter sky,</div>
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Coursing now from east to south at twilight,</div>
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<br /></div>
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With your bow-hand high,</div>
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With robes girt up</div>
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Into star-silvered girdle;</div>
<div>
You turn upon your half-bent knee.</div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-0ba87d59-975e-5af8-8c84-83948d2840a7"><br /></span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-0ba87d59-975e-5af8-8c84-83948d2840a7">Was it your form</span></div>
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Which Praxiteles saw</div>
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In winter skies of golden years,</div>
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And set his chisel to the task?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Was it your grace</div>
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He gave Olympian Hermes</div>
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And Apollo, still renowned</div>
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In legend and Athenian marble?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Legends slumber, marble wastes;</div>
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Yet still I see you, dear Orion,</div>
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In other age, and in another world;</div>
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Between the mountains of the sun</div>
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<br /></div>
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You live at twilight,</div>
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Still glorious and young,</div>
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Unwearied and unchanging,</div>
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In purple skies above the moon.</div>
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<br /></div>
</span></div>
Amy@SmallSunnyGardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490564566463354419noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7308776883387508973.post-76977424529806363642016-03-11T12:48:00.000-08:002016-03-11T12:48:03.871-08:00In and Out the Flower<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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