Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Category Archives: life up here

Black eyed susan


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field notes: end of summer, visual feast

The end of (traditional) summer has arrived. In the natural world summer is only winding down, its passing not a done deal. This year I’ve been struck by the blowsy charms of the overripe, the almost gone, the partly eaten former glories in my garden.

Sedum, blue lobelia and black eyed susan.

Sedum, emerging blue lobelia and black eyed susan.

I’ve been feeling each day of this summer so intensely, mindful of time passing. It has been a wonderful experience I hope to carry into fall.

With the usual late season suspects coming into their own — garlic chive flowers, blue lobelia, cardinal flower, buddleia and sedum, red and yellow apples — our visual smorgasbord is lush.

We have at least one pair of ruby throated hummingbirds here this year. I wonder if I will see them leave, or simply realize they haven’t been by in a couple of days.

I now know generally where one nest is, and will take a careful look come October.

A weed visitor, not without charm

A weed/wildflower visitor, not without its charm

This has been a so so summer for butterflies, although we did have a Luna Moth visit early on. I have not seen a single Monarch this summer so far. Not one. [9/11/14 post script: three monarchs have appeared, big relief.]

Our milkweed patch, here before we moved in, continues to thrive, and we will harvest some seeds to spread in other areas around our yard.

Blue lobelia

Blue lobelia in full bloom

Did I mention the toads? And frogs? They are all over the place, many more than usual. Horrie thinks it is his mission to catch them all. Yesterday one tiny toad hid out on my water sandal next to my heel until the coast was clear. It felt like a very soft, wispy kiss, which is what made me look down in the first place. Coming home last night from rehearsal there were big two green and brown bullfrogs on the kitchen doorstep, feasting on bugs!

Sunflower

Not quite denuded sunflower.

The bandit-masked yellow goldfinches have been going at the sunflowers, duking it out with the chipmunks for all the goodies on offer.

As I write this, there are three of them out there, calling to each other, pecking away.

Some of our winter residents have been coming by to see if the feeders are back up yet (they aren’t). Titmice, nuthatches, a woodpecker, and the ever hopeful mourning doves have all been here in the last week or so. The jays haven’t bothered yet. Come November we will be in the sunflower seed and suet business again. Any sooner and our bear friends will be back.

Purple bee balm, almost gone by

Purple bee balm, almost gone by

The purple bee balm had its glory days, and is now showing the effects of some mildew, but it was quite the star of the garden in mid-summer. It seems to be thriving and spreading more than its red or white cousins. I usually leave some deadheads intact over the winter for visual interest. And the birds.

Starry garlic chive flowers, echoing early spring bulbs

Starry garlic chive flowers, echoing early spring bulbs


Cardinal flower, always such a surprisingly intense red.

Cardinal flower, always such a surprisingly intense red.

It will be time to harvest the herbs soon and move a few plants around, and after the first frost trim things down and top dress the beds with a wonderful compost from Maine.

But not quite yet. We still have hummingbirds and dragonflies!

flowers from Geoff


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every day, love

we settle, cozy with each other,
life together flowing,
knowing we won’t leave
this place, our coupleness,
while our hearts are here.

quiet moments, though less weighted,
felt more clearly than crescendos,
simple, loving gestures
saturated with delight,
flowers you have chosen,
waiting on our table,
lovely, in a jar or pitcher,
knowledge of these growing things
and bird songs,
gifts I brought to you
through our acquaintance,
love’s osmosis
passing bounty back to me.

you brought me here, to
nights on mountains,
walks through wetlands,
skiing on a snow deep pond
in winter moonlight,
summer swimming ledges,
hearing loons or beaver slaps,
thrushes lilting song in hemlock woods,
rhododendrons bent with snow,
discoveries that echo joy,
and I suppose, my loving them
is now a gift turned round again

to you


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glowing

us together, still
improbable ember
rescued from the dark,
almost at its end,
not quite extinguished

once hopeful
souls bared in grief,
looked with honest eyes
at last, just on the edge
and leapt as one
to breathe together,
gently turning glimmer
into glow once more,
memory and faith
relighting love,
honesty and trust
its fuel

standing steady,
hand clasped
loving hearts
held surely,
hard won flames
our bright reward


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field notes: seen in passing

One morning last week I took my usual backroads route to work, an overland passage through woods, by farms and open fields, skirting the town of Jaffrey and its one (no, make that two) traffic light(s).

My reward for leaving at 7 am was a wildlife smorgasbord.

The chipmunk trying to look inconspicuous on the stalk of a sunflower in the herb bed at home, cheeks full of green sunflower seeds.

Still on Mountain Road, a “farmer jam” in full swing. A car stopped on the opposite side of the road with doors open and flashers going, a heifer munching grass calmly between the car and the farm couple hopping out of their truck, pails of grain in hand to lure their animal back up the dirt road away from the highway.

[Folks are pretty good around here about helping out when these things happen, even on a busy state road when everyone is gunning it to get to work.]

A flock of hen turkeys under the trees and in the road next to the really old farmhouse on the last part of Proctor. Slowing down to shoo the last of the Ladies Who Munch off the road, calling out “gobble gobble y’all!”. Flatlander humor.

And, turning onto Vose Farm Road and work, there was a red squirrel down the hill, going hell bent for leather across the road, as only the reds can. With a large piece of wood or other trophy better than half its size in its mouth, sticking out on either side.

I love rush hour in the country.


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sitting in

walking into warmth and welcome
with a close held friend,
we find a solid place,
crafted lovingly
of wood, and glass, and hope,
the love of neighbor,
dignified by quiet repetition,
faith made real,
seen in face and heart,
heard in voices raised in song,
those who come once more
to hear a gifted preacher’s words,
sharing his belief in purpose
and God’s love,
of the journey into faith.
all this I see, from number 31,
(an alto seat), gladly sitting in,
sending up my hymn with theirs,
in deep appreciation
for the gift of wisdom,
ours that day to
keep and savor

__________________________________________
for Tom Atkins, the preacher Deborah Rahalski and I heard that day, our friend and fellow creative spirit, on the occasion of his birthday.


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light at an angle

it is a gift I take for granted
with no remorse or hesitation,
as it is given freely
to any open eye.
angled early light,
shadows cast ahead of its arrival,
backlighting leaves and shapes,
opaque and glowing
slanted blades cut through
the woods filled up with morning haze
left over from a night of rain,
all seen in passing
on a backwoods shortcut road,
chosen not for haste but beauty,
and the joy I feel
when passing by

________________________________
I am a light addict. once I learned to see light, not just crave it, my view of the world changed forever. for Jon Katz as he heals. his vision has opened many eyes.


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brilliance

thank you
for another day
and this clear morning,
sky scrubbed clean
by weeks of rain
and teasing clouds
that sometimes gave
a glimpse ahead, with
cores of incandescence
thickly edged in gray

thank you
for rays that stream
between the curves and arms
of freshly leafed-out trees,
silhouettes of feeding grackles
dark against a row of lilacs,
backlit foxglove petals
rich with sun
to stun my eyes

thank you
for this early clarity
to show my day direction,
light so brilliant
it almost bursts
my soul

___________________________
yesterday morning’s light was extraordinary.


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green water

sun rich light, through
leaves above this brook,
drops glowing green
into the water
moving surely
through my woods

nothing murky,
this is crystal
over pebbled granite,
drawing with it
memory and flavors
held by silt
and wood orts, shed
by gently rotting windfalls

the water of this moment
leaves us, on its way
to pond, then stream and river
with its story, bringing news
of seasons past
and momentary glories
as it joins
the greater flow

________________________________
I first noticed the green water on Fassett Brook last summer, its return has been very welcome


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resurfacing

at some point in the spring
with final farewells said,
the forest floor,
so visible all winter,
stuck with upright trunks
and fallen wood
against the snow
or rich red-brown,
retreats awhile
to steep its humus brew

and with the first
green carpet runners
stretched out by a path
or rolled along a stream,
the leaves emerge
in verdant tonal steps
from brown to red
to fresh pastel
and map the world beneath
with sun and shade

while at the very top,
among the branching crowns
a child’s delight returns,
remembered shapes or faces
in the trees, glimpsed
from a bedtime pillow,
boon companions
for another summer

_______________________________________
With winter ebbing very slowly this year, the woods floor began to look quite different as the angle of the sun changed. It was marvelous to see it in this new light, and I realized that I’d miss it with the advent of true spring. I’ve always found shapes of animals or objects or more often, faces, in the leaves and branches of summer, yet another reason I love having a window by my bed.