Monday, June 24, 2013

The Secret Life of Irises

In the night, in the wind, at the edge of rain,
I find five irises, and call them lovely.
As if a woman, once, lay by them awhile,
then woke, rose, went, the memory of hair
lingers on their sweet tongues.
I’d like to tear these petals with my teeth.
I’d like to investigate these hairy selves,
their beauty and indifference. They hold
their breath all their lives
and open, open.

We are not lovers, not brother and sister,
though we drift hand in hand through a hall
thrilling and burning as thought and desire
expire, and, over this dream of life,
this life of sleep, we waken dying—
violet becoming blue, growing
black, black—all that
an iris ever prays,
when it prays,
to be.
         ~ Li-Young Lee

The photographs are mine.

Friday, June 21, 2013

Roses in the Rain

While on my rounds last evening, talking with the greenery, I noticed several new roses had bloomed. When I got closer, nose to nose with them, I saw that there were many more buds waiting to open. Many more. These are the old-fashioned roses that smell the way a rose came into this world to smell. I promised them I'd be back in the morning to take their picture. So, this morning, while the rain came softly down, I kept my promise.

It looks to be a good year for the roses.

I'm going to miss this man. His music helped shape my life. Thank God for youtube, radio and records. Here's George:

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Looking for the Keys

I love doors, and the keys that open them...

"Every exit is an entrance somewhere."  ~ Tom Stoppard

All images found on tumblr.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

A Lilac and Shortbread Heaven

Yesterday was my first day back at the local farmers market. In my neck of the woods there is little in the way of fresh local produce this time of year. In lieu of that, everyone seemed to have made fresh bread. Unfortunately, I like homemade bread more than I like cookies and that's saying a lot. I was reminded of when I was very young and we would tire of those homemade cookies Mother made, delicious though they were, and yearn for some that were store-bought. We would often stop at the Corner Store after church and once in a blue moon we were allowed to buy them. My preferred store-bought cookie? Pecan shortbread. I would fondle that package and look at my mother longingly until she gave in. Heaven was not to be found in the Great Hereafter, as the Sunday School teacher would have me believe. I knew where heaven was and it was inside that package of shortbread. Which takes me back to the Friday farmers market.

There's a gal who makes all organic bread with peace and love among the listed ingredients. Yesterday I bought Early Riser. Next week she promises Old World, which is, according to the neighbors, other-worldly. But, here's the kicker: she had homemade Scottish shortbread made from her Scottish grandmother's recipe who also taught her how to make it. Three ingredients: flour, sugar, and butter. Needless to say, I brought a package home, clenched in my fist much like that little girl who longed to have a package of shortbread heaven all those millennia ago. Don't tell anybody, but I just ate two and I'm waiting for my Early Riser toast to pop up as I write this.

If a man ever wants to find his way into my heart he should show up with homemade bread and a jar of blackberry jam. If he made both in his own kitchen he would probably gain entrance to more than my heart. But, I'm surrounded by lilacs on this rainy Sunday morning and the scent is intoxicating, so ...

All photos were taken this morning in the rain, here at my home, Lonewolf.