Dawn

The tentative, probing fingers of dawn
begin their early reminders to night
that its dark curtain must be lifted.
The diurnal signal for the onstage
performance of song sparrows,
cardinals, goldfinches, each eager
to trill their operatic welcome to
light, colours, shapes returned to
morning, stretching into another day.

The night's rain that so excited the
early morning prospects of robins
has left bright yellow streaks of
pollen on all obliging surfaces. Soon
the sky presents as blue as the
Mediterranean sea, with contrails
wisping languorously beyond and above.

The restless world of the forest
awakens as light slowly creeps into
every interstice of opportunity, reminding
its creatures that yet another day
awaits their exacting routines
so carefully constructed by nature.

The Stars At Night

She struggled to keep her eyes focused on the pages before her. She certainly wasn’t bored with the writing. Which she could claim for the book that preceded it, but would not, since that book was not a novel but a serious historical accounting of the arduous journey of transmigration of an afflicted population to another place, of eventual refuge.

This one was a novel by Kingsley Amis, The Old Devils. A far superior writer to Martin Amis. Who doubtless inherited much from his father, but excellence as a writer not among his inheritances. The son is a passable writer, nothing more. The father in another class entirely. So it was irritating beyond belief that she realized that she had just closed her eyes on the printed page that so entertained her, and must have dropped off to sleep for a nano-second. Even worse; she understood that this was not the first time. There had been a succession of these stop-and-starts.

More than a little obvious, since she knew she had been reading the same paragraph over and over again. She recognized the words, but the purport eluded her, which was why she began again at the top of that paragraph each time she jerked herself awake. She should, she knew, simply call it a night.

Glancing over at her husband, whose breathing betrayed his state of sleep, although his alert pose, holding aloft the novel he was reading - one of those interminable detective novels he affected - as though he was still reading it, though he was not, made her experience a twinge of guilt. He always did that. That little artifice. As though he was being loyal to her. Wouldn’t put the book on his night stand, shut off his lamp, plump his pillow, and go to sleep. No, if she was reading, he would too.

When it was the other way around, and she finally admitted to herself that she’d have to call it a night; tossed her extra pillow down to the foot of the bed, set aside her book, took off her reading glasses, and settled herself into her half-clam sleeping position, back turned to him, to block out the light, he would pat her behind, murmur goodnight, and continue reading.

Sometimes she roused herself sufficiently to lean over to kiss him goodnight, before turning her back to him. When, eventually, he too succumbed to the inevitable, he would turn toward her, draw her into him, and they would sleep in a close embrace, the habit of 55 years of marriage.

Occasionally, however, she would fall asleep, back to him, then suddenly awaken, alert to the sound of his deep-sleep breathing, aware that his lamp was still on. She would nudge him, whisper, “time to sleep!”, rousing him briefly awake, whereupon he would perform the perfunctory tasks to sleep preparation.

This time she kept struggling to keep her place in the novel, intent on continuing. She had no intention yet of going to sleep. Too early. Damn it. And he was still going strong, deep into his detective novel. Why not her? Why not her? Well, possibly because she felt exhausted from the heat. And the humidity. They had a fan going, directed right at the bed, and that helped.

The bedroom window was open, and doubtless that helped to exhaust some of the stuffy hot air out of the house’s second story. Another fan was directed at the loveseat sitting kitty-corner to the window. Which was where their little poodle, the little black female poodle, settled down for the night. This heat was hard on the little dog. The little old dog.

Her struggles with her book and her stubborn resistance to sleep finally concluded with the book falling out of her hands. She’d fallen asleep momentarily, become instantly awake as she felt the book leave her hands. Tried to retrieve it, but was too late. She heard a yelp, and she felt badly. His own fault. Who told him to sleep there, so close by her, anyway? She pulled the book away, and felt him settle back to sleep. Also heard a horribly ferocious growl emanate softly from under the top sheet. Then quiet.

Time to call it a day. There would be ample time to continue reading the novel. She half-rose to deposit her second pillow, turned to pull the other one to a cant, and as she did that, her husband woke, rid himself too of his novel, pulled his pillow down, turned off his lamp just as she had hers. They murmured their ‘good-nights’, and sleep overtook them both.

When she awakened, it was dark. Dark and slightly clammy feeling. She felt herself perspiring. Felt too that creepy menopausal feeling. That, on her part. On his, the routine was that he would toss the light sheet off, turn, wait awhile until he was slightly more awake, then roll off the bed and pad into the bathroom. When he returned he would assess the situation over at the loveseat, pile back into bed, and leave the top sheet off, relying on that hard-working fan to cool him off. And her too. The other fan was directed toward the little black dog. The heat hit her hard, all 18 years of her.

Her husband fell quickly back to sleep. He always did. His enlarged prostate ensured he would waken several times during the course of the night to haul himself off to the bathroom for some relief from the urge to urinate. Soon as his head touched the pillow she always heard the steady rhythmic sound of his deep-sleep breathing. That always reassured her.

As for her, she would often lie awake. Thinking. There was always something to think about. Something to worry about. So many things that wouldn’t perturb her when they were younger, now did. She tried not to discuss those things with him. If and when she did, he would be upset with her.

This time, lying awake, her mouth felt disgusting. It was that Vidalia onion. Vidalia onions weren’t supposed to be so strong-tasting. She had chopped it into the potato salad they had for dinner. It was delicious; a very nice foil for the potatoes and the grape tomatoes. Went very well with the devilled eggs. Would have been far better, too, not to have those big fat sausages her husband insisted on grilling on the barbecue. At least in the winter, she sighed to herself, she didn’t have to compete with the barbecue.

In the winter catering their meals was her affair. In the summer things became more complicated. She hated to deny him the pleasure of barbecuing things. She didn’t mind when he barbecued salmon. She loved salmon any way they had it, but he would only enjoy it when it was barbecued. He would barbecue everything they ate, if he had his way and she allowed him to. Once or twice a week was more than enough.

They’d reached an agreement over what they’d have on the barbecue. He could do steaks occasionally. And sausages, and meat patties, but no more often than twice a week. It was better for them, she had long ago convinced him and he had reluctantly acquiesced, that they have more frequent dairy meals, be less reliant on meat for their protein. So often, despite that, when they were doing the food shopping together he would casually comment about something looking really good.

A few months ago it was beef tongue. They hadn’t seen that for sale in years. She could live without it. Organ meats, she told him, are very high in cholesterol, they didn’t need that. But he was so excited at seeing the tongue - and the disgustingly expensive price-tag didn’t deter him one bit - that she had agreed; all right. There was just the two of them. That tongue was huge. And what a nuisance. It had to be boiled, the rough skin removed afterward, along with all those unappetizing tough bits at the root of the tongue. And then it could be baked, or prepared in some other, imaginative way, with spices, with carrots, or cabbage, a traditional type dish. Fussy and hardly worth the effort. But he loved it.

Just last Friday, even though they had long ago agreed they would buy only fresh sausages, not smoked or processed ones with nitrates, he had spoken so longingly of the others she had agreed --- just this once. She had almost changed her mind when she asked him to look at the sodium content: 37%. She was horrified. He ambled over to the meat counter to look at the sodium content of the fresh sausages: 24%, not all that much of a difference, he said, grinning at her.

She could still taste the sausage. She could still taste the Vidalia onion. Her mouth felt hot and the odour overwhelmed her with disgust. She couldn’t work up the energy to get out of bed, brush her teeth again, drink some cranberry juice to help cleanse that disgusting taste out of her mouth. Finally, she did fall back to sleep.

And when she again awoke, it was to a dim dawn light creeping through the bedroom. If it wasn’t so hot and humid they’d have had the bedroom window open. And they could hear the robins, the cardinals singing in the backyard. They started so early in the spring, as soon as the sun came up. Their songs were divinely inspired, luminescently lovely.

They often lay abed listening, while fresh spring air filtered through the open window. But not when the overnight temperature only dipped to 21-degrees, from a day-time high of 31-Celsius. Not this morning. She hated it when they couldn’t have the bedroom window open.

And then, she opened her eyes, slowly. Closed them again. He was still asleep. So were the little dogs, the one on the loveseat, the one curled into a tiny ball under the top sheet, close by her, in the bed.

What on Earth, she wondered, was that? Like a neat little firework explosion. A daisy-wheel. A narrow-flanged gear. A cartwheel. Was that an accurate description? Did it do justice to that round, perfectly articulated object that flashed in the vision of her left eye? As though burned inside the retina. Close the eye, and it dissolves. Open the eye and it flashes flamboyantly into prominence, obscuring her vision.

Sky And Forest

High above the forest canopy
in the clear blue sky a helicopter
slowly passes, beating the passive
air. Below the canopy, the flight
of iridescent-bodied, wing-flashing
dragonflies reign in splendid mode.
Bumblebees, sturdy stewards of
floral gold-dust, settle busily
within buttercups, wild raspberry
and daisy-like fleabane flowers.

The air is sweet with organic
life renewed. Pollen drifts like
an evanescent gold veil over the
landscape, lit by the sun, like a
miniature world of diamante-sharp
scattered stars; a dense milky-way
of life-enhancing woodland energy.

Lichens fasten themselves to tree
trunks, entranced with their sense
of ornamentation. A huge ruffle of
pale yellow surrounds the base of an
expired young elm, resembling a
hoary spear securing a delectable
selection of delicacies awaiting the
appearance of a connoisseur.

Gifted Elements Of Life

A blue, hazy sky, unresistant to the
sun's imperiously blazing presence,
and a wind skilled at shifting relief
over energy-depleted limbs, exerted
through a vigorous morning foray
into beckoning woodlands.

A leisurely, yet energetic amble,
where we venture to be re-energized
by our direct confrontation with
all things natural, in brief release
from the din of the mechanistic
world of nature-spurning humankind.

Sunlight filtering through the leafy
canopy reveals a golden skein, a veil
of gilded particles shifting endlessly
through the warm, still air. This
gold dust of organic renewal swirls
everywhere, settles and rests,
infiltrates, and insinuates at will.

Yet without will; at the discretion
and direction of nature's purpose. Our
orifices receive the powdered elements
of plant life, even as all it settles upon
absorb its presence as the continuation
and very manifestation of life.

As we ourselves are constructed of
all the heavenly matter that we name
star dust circulates, is absorbed and
lends life its essence, in an unending
celestial continuum of birth and re-birth.

The Homework Kid

Well, that’s it. I am pissed. I am really pissed. My mom says I should just let it go, and be thankful things turned out that way. All of us should. Take advantage of the break. There’ll be more than enough challenges, she said, next year, when I start high school. I know all of that. I know more or less, what to expect there. Things will be different, for sure.

But I’m still here, in elementary school, most of the way through Grade 8. I know I used to grit my teeth and say I can see it through. Meaning to the end of the school year. Meaning having HER ride on my back, driving me nuts with her screeching. No, not just me, everyone. All of us. Which gave us a lot to talk about, didn’t it? Having a teacher who we couldn’t respect.

You could say that everyone going into her class kind of knew what to expect. She had a reputation, and not a good one, but then hardly any teacher in the school has a ‘good’ reputation, if you know what I mean. Maybe the primary-grade teachers do, but not the others. Some of them aren’t bad, some of them are pretty awful. You could say Mrs. McVetty’s was about as bad as they get. I had a friend at school a grade above me, a really good friend. We used to spend a lot of time together in the schoolyard, and after school. She would tell me about the things McVetty used to do. She hated her.

My mom said I should give her a chance, not rely on gossip. It wasn’t gossip, it was friendly advice. But you know, when September came around and we were first in her class, I thought what the hell! I wondered what all the fuss was about, because she seemed really good. I mean she explained things, it seemed as if she cared about whether we understood subjects like math, and she’d seem to be extra careful to see that everyone knew what was happening before she moved on to higher levels.

I really appreciated that. It helped me a lot, it really did. I felt pretty good about stuff, especially math and science, not my best subjects. That lasted for the first two months. And after that, wow, you wouldn’t believe the kind of atmosphere around our classroom. Not, as my mom said, conducive to learning. Because this teacher just kept going off the rails. Seems she couldn’t control the class, and she couldn’t control her reaction to the class.

Yep, some of us were kind of noisy and we didn’t like being told not to be. She began to move us all around the place, making us sit here and there and everywhere but where we wanted to, to get us away from one another. That only made things worse; because we were further apart from the people we really liked we just upped the activities that got her mad. We were louder, we were sneakier when she wasn’t looking, some of the guys began to airplane notes and the place went wild.

If you think we were loud, that was nothing compared to her. I mean she went berserk, completely nuts. She would screech at us like she was out of her mind. My mom said she could understand that; I drive her crazy, too. She said all of us should give a thought to the difficulty of teaching 24 hormone-charged obstreperous kids (her words). Tough, I said, other teachers do it and they don’t blow like Mount Olympus.

Funny thing about that, my mom’s sympathy for Mrs. McVetty, it just didn’t last. She stopped telling me to try to tone things down and set an example for the other kids once I told her that my teacher criticized my mom. My mom was shocked. Criticize her? What for? Well, Mom, I said, remember all those evening school events we usually don’t attend?

“Those useless non-events? That’s what she’s criticizing me for, for not hauling myself out in the evening after working a day job, working at home, looking after you and wanting nothing but to get into an early bed? That’s what’s wrong with me?”

Yeah, Mom”, I laughed "that’s what’s wrong with you".

“Hey, remember, chum, this was a mutual decision. After the first few we went to, we both decided it was a waste of time.”

“Yep. I remember. You don’t get any complaint out of me for bypassing them. I’m just telling you what my esteemed teacher said.”

“She said... What did she say?”

“That you’ve got your priorities screwed up.”

“She said that? Who the hell does she think she is, anyway?”

“Don’t get mad at me, Mom, I’m just telling you what she said. I don’t think that way. In fact, I felt really bad, insulted that she would even mention you. You are none of her business. I just walked away from her.”

“Oh.”

After that Mom didn’t have too much to say about Mrs. McVetty. Although I gave her plenty of opportunity. It was like, every day coming home from school she’d ask how was school and I’d tell her how awful it was. Because of our teacher.

Like, what kid wants to go to school to be screamed at every damn day? And she picked on me a lot. No, not just me, most of the other kids got it too, but me especially. That’s my opinion.

She’d get this idea that you were doing something you weren’t supposed to and she’d keep going at you until you were ready to scream. Even about who your friends were. A teacher is supposed to teach. She hardly does that, most of the time. You don’t expect a teacher to be a social worker, to get herself all worked up about the kids in her class having friends. Some kids don’t deserve to have friends. They turn on people who are decent to them. That’s what happened to me.

There’s this girl, Shawna, not Shawna MacDonald, Shawna Boyd. Everyone likes Shawna MacDonald. Shawna Boyd, well everyone just kind of ignored her. I thought she never did anything to me, why should I ignore her? So I didn’t, I spoke to her, and she kind of matched herself up with me, and it was annoying because I didn’t always want her around, but there she was, always in our group.

The other girls would glare at her and that made me include her more, but I resented doing it, kind of. She kept text-messaging me outside school, and I responded, always, but she was kind of a nuisance, know what I mean? And then I found out that she had lied to me, telling me that one my friends said horrible things about me. And then I found out it wasn’t true, and I had it out with her.

Now I don’t exactly ignore her, I speak to her, but I don’t let her hang around anymore. That’s just the way it is. So Mrs. McVetty gets on my case and wants to know all about it, what happened and why. She has no right to do that. I just told her ‘nothing, nothing’s wrong’.

Holly and Morgan can’t stand Mrs. McVetty, they’re worse than me about her. You can bet we have lots to talk about, and none of it very flattering to Mrs. McVetty. Come to think of it, there weren’t many kids in the class who even liked her, although a couple of kids did defend her reputation. They thought she was all right. Good for them. They were her little class pets, so it’s hardly surprising they would come out on her side. She never yelled at them. Well, hardly ever.

Like, it’s crazy, she gives us new math work, writes on the board how to understand the stuff, tells us here’s some homework, and anyone who doesn’t get it can ask her for special help. I was stupid enough to go to her a few times and ask for help. I know I was stupid, because she as much as said so. And instead of helping me she was really sarcastic, so I would never ask her for any help again. I managed to figure things out for myself anyway, because I’m really good with homework. Matter of fact, my friends ask me to help them mostly. Not that I‘m the smartest kid in the class, I’m not.

There’s a couple of kids who are good at everything, sports, math, science, history, geography. Art, too. I can’t draw anything to resemble what it’s supposed to be. I’m not bad at athletics, but not good, either, although it’s kind of fun. I am pretty good at writing. When we get assignments to write poetry or book reviews, or history reviews, I write the longest reports and reviews, and when I read my poetry in front of the class everyone listens and I get a huge applause. But Brian’s a much better poet than I am; he can write poetry like it’s nothing. I’ve got to feel really upset about something before I can produce a poem, don’t know why.

Anyway, all of us were really getting fed up. Not only did we have to put up with all this screaming abuse day after day, and listening to our teacher accuse us of being ignorant little brats and worse, but she kept assigning all kinds of homework. And tests, day after day, one test after another. The good thing about the tests, though, is that she said anyone who didn’t get a mark they were proud of, would be allowed to do the test over. I took advantage of that opportunity all the time, a lot of the kids didn’t bother. But I figure, anything that helps pump up your marks at the end of the year is worthwhile. Besides, I know if you keep doing things over, like repeating things, they eventually stick with you.

I know I do a lot of complaining about the homework, because there’s so much of it. But even though I do complain a lot, I don’t really mind it all that much. I guess I’m pretty organized, that way. Besides which, I don’t get out all that much, since we live in the country. It’s not like I can just go for a walk somewhere, other than on our property, all six acres of it. No thanks, really.

I used to invite my friends over and I’d go over to their places quite a lot. We used to sleep over all the time, for the entire week-end. I don’t do that so much anymore. Don’t really know why, just don’t. I do a lot of reading though, a whole lot. I treasure my books. Don't like to lend them out to anyone, because none of my friends are careful enough with books. I hate dog-eared pages, it's horrible that anyone could do that with a book. So I do a lot of reading, and sometimes I even read some of my favourites over again. Sometimes I get bored, but even though my mom says invite your friends over, I won't.

Anyway, we see one another all the time at school. Sometimes, for some of us, it’s enough. More than enough, some of the girls are really irritating sometimes. The guys not so much, because we don’t really hang out with them. I heard once, someone told me about a school that decided to separate the boys from the girls, and kept them in separate classes, so they could do an experiment that organized classes to be taught in a way that the teachers thought would be better for the boys, and the same for the girls. I think that sucks. It’s much better when the guys and the girls are together, in one class. It’s far more interesting. With the guys around you never know when something really funny is going to happen.

Yes, I’m kind of off track. I was explaining, or I meant to explain, how kind of mysterious it is that all of a sudden, Mrs. McVetty isn’t there any more. I don’t mean upstairs, in her head, we’re kind of convinced she’s not all there, actually. I mean for a few days last week we had ‘spares’ come in. When that happens, it’s guaranteed to be a boring day. They don’t teach, they just depend on you to do work that’s been assigned by your normal teacher. And if there’s no work that’s been assigned, the spares just look at what Mrs. McVetty has written down for them, and tell us to get on with things that way. Couldn’t be more boring. We learn nothing, nothing at all. That really, truly bugs me.

And then last week this guy came in. Said he’d be around awhile. He’s a new teacher, looks like he’s around 26, or something. I doubt he’s had all that much experience, although he told us he has. He said he’d be filling in for Mrs. McVetty for the rest of the year. We’ve got almost two months left in the school year, and she’s opted out. She said nothing to us, nothing at all. She did say, at the start of the school year, she said it was a pledge: she would do everything necessary to completely prepare us for high school. She promised. And then what did she do? bog off, that's what. That really burns me up.

Seemed at first it would be a big relief. No more headaches, no more having to stick our fingers in our ears while she screeches at us, telling us we’re the worst class she’s ever had, absolute morons. She didn’t use that word, but it was what she meant.

This guy is okay. I don’t think all that much of him, actually. Just another teacher, certainly not the best I’ve had, but not the worst, either. The worst is no longer in our classroom. It’s too early, I guess, to see whether he’ll be any better than her at teaching us stuff. But already we can see he’s not into all the stuff she was, assigning us poetry and book review studies, and math and geography and science. He’s a bit of a wuss, we all thought.

I asked some of the guys what they thought of him. Shrug. You’d think they might be more interested, kind of, because he’s a guy and they’re guys, but it doesn’t seem like they’re reacting that way at all. It’s just kind of as though they’re disinterested.

Guess Mrs. McVetty knocked the stuffing out of all of us. He’s got his own take on the curriculum, and classes aren’t slopping over any more. We hardly get any homework. You’d think I’d be happy about that, but I’m not. I miss the homework, I really do.

And, guess what? I actually feel a little cheated about not having homework to do after school. It’s like I feel my academic credentials will be plummeting, I won’t be learning as much as I need to know, and that really, truly sucks. If you’d asked me a month ago if I’d be feeling like this I would never have believed it.

I mean we really had an awful load of stuff to get done, every day of the week, and week-ends no exceptions. It was a miserable burden, even if we did get used to it. And now, all of a sudden, nothing. Okay, maybe we should just kind of adjust, coast on the fact that we’ve got it easy now for the rest of the school year. But it just doesn’t feel right.

So, we should celebrate because we don’t get headaches any more being exposed to some adult who isn’t capable of mustering enough internal resources to calmly teach and discipline the people in the class who are always out of line? You’d think so. I’d have thought that way.

Okay, the same kids are still acting up. At first this guy, Mr. Masterson, just calmly put them in their place. And they shut up. Then that didn’t work any more. And he began yelling. It was different than what Mrs. McVetty used to do. This is a guy, and he raises his voice, and it’s loud and strong, not shrill and excited. Just a big, surprising blast. And everyone shuts up.

He yells “I don’t have to take this crap!”. And everyone shuts up.

A Woodlands Drama

The imperious dome of the sky
is resolutely blue, with a faint
haze of deeply humid air, slightly
wafted by an over-heated wind,
rustling foliage, relieving but
minimally the cloying atmosphere.

All is tranquil, barely a sound
emanates from any ambient source.
Even the depleted watercourse
no longer runs but lethargically;
barely a ripple to glance back
the burning orb of the sun.

A sudden, high-pitched shriek
alarms the air, as a hawk pitches
itself into spirals through the
dense heat of the sky. A blackbird,
pecking desultorily on dry ground
suddenly spreads wing, thrusting
wildly into the receiving sky.

There are no small woodlands
animals yet to be seen, wary in
their dens. Several brown, striped
feathers lie in testimony to a recent
night-time drama that unfolded
with desperation never heard.

Uncaring buttercups and Solomon's
seal reveal their flowery presence.
Fleabane perkily blooms, and
cowvetch begins its strangling
summer devotional. Blue-eyed
grass blooms in great innocence.

Garden Residents

We have been entranced with
the insouciant appearance of
early spring garden stalwarts,
as hyacinths, daffodils, tulips,
crocuses and fritallaria gave way
to foamflower, bleeding heart,
bergenia, Jacks taking their place.

The procession of succession
brought magnolia, crabapple
blossoms, columbine, irises,
lilies-of-the-valley, lilacs
perfuming the air we breathe,
delighting us in their presence
of ephemeral, familiar visions.

Each day a new discovery, as
rhododendron, azaleas, quince,
phlox, bring butterflies, bees
and dragonflies to our very
personal Garden of Eden. Clematis
vines and honeysuckle cling to
walls and fences, and roses and
hydrangea bursting with vigour.

Promising flower buds eager to bloom,
enriched with nutrients of nature's
providing, conspiring between them
the orchestration of a theatrical
production to seize and abduct our
delirious senses equalled only in the
song of the cardinal, the robin, the
goldfinch - garden residents all.

My Tangled Garden

I've my own version of a wonderfully
realized tangled garden, equally colourful,
monumentally textured as A.Y. Jackson's
famous painting. While yet still spring
the warmth of the sun, this Valley's humidity
conspire with nature to urge all growing
things to green anarchic celebration.

Each of the trees, shrubs, bushes in my
beloved garden has a well developed
personality; to tamper with is to invite
dismayed rejection. Each flourishes
enthusiastically resistant to shaping,
containment or instruction to respect the
confines assigned, aspiring instead to
capturing area not their own.

Patiently, I have learned through long
observance to allow each its successive
celebration of bloom. And when their
conceit has been fulfilled, admirable
presence of colour and fragrance muted for
another year, out come the shears, the
pruners, the secateurs and order is restored.

Allowing yet another garden contingent
to declare prominence and clamouring
claim to admired presence, in a prolonged,
summer-long process of affecting need.

The Sky-Chugging Storm

It's a tame life we live; we accept
slight challenges and derive great
satisfaction in our small triumphs.
In the garden, the opportunities to
greet adversity with determined
actions are many, but of happy
moment to the intrepid gardener
thrilling to the immediate challenge.

The fragrance of damp soil, the
promise inherent in the effort to
aid sun and rain bring extravagant
colour shadings, varied architecture
and plush textures to prominent
garden features, drowning the
senses in deeply sensual bliss.

To thrust deeply into soil richly
composted, darkly crumbling with
growing nutrients, hosting burrowing
insects of the garden. A sense of
power and availment overwhelms.
The purpose: to move and transplant
faithful perennial clumps, and roses
to locations better suited to their
growing needs; to see them thrive.

This compels the action, impels the
change. The sky above is heavy with
dark clouds, the atmosphere cloying
with humidity, and one distant clap
after another gives ample warning
of imminent inundation. Nothing
deterred, the feverish digging proceeds
along with gentle removal and final
disposal, patting soil about the plant.

Lightning rents the clouds, sending
bright rods of energy and light
Earthward, counting down the arrival
of the sky-chugging storm whose
violent intent is deduced from the
ever-insurgent booms drumming the
sky, moving inexorably closer to the
target my garden has become.

It is nothing short of exhilarating
to race the storm. Perform the
penultimate transplant, calmly
proceed to the last as heavy drops
begin to lash the air. The final work
is done, warm, moist soil patted
into place, anchoring the plant.

One arm scoops my confused little
dog, the other my tools, for a mad
dash to the garden shed for tool
disposal. Deep breath, and the full
impact of the storm raging above,
thunder thumping the atmosphere,
light shafts renting the clouds, we
tear through the deck door, wet
and fulfilled, danger defied.

The Ambiance

Early morning streaked-dark clouds
obscuring the promise of this day did
not deter robins from their early
paeans, ringing the atmosphere with
sweet melody. The lassitude of the day
marked first by tepidly-falling showers
then the clouds, less obdurate
than thought, lifted, skimming the
lid of the sky and finally there
remained a pale, unchallenged blue.

The sun, free to arrest humidity
into a clear, dry balance for the day.
Nary the presence of wind, merely
a slight, relieving breeze to gently
part the fresh new green of ambient
trees. In the woods, the sharp
clear peal of a blue jay peels through
the arras of the surrounding forest.

Dragonflies filter about overflying a
lazily draining creek, while others
flitter above, through the branches
of trees, their bright green and blue
bodies caught in shafts of gilded sunlight.
On the forest floor, wild strawberries
bloom tight little white, yellow-centred
faces, among the starry ivory heads of
bunchberries, the lacy white fronds of
evanescently-fragrant lilies-of-the-valley.

A grackle flies, arrow-straight
beyond an ancient willow, its roots
entrenched deep within a placidly
ambling creek tributary. Within
the wide crotch of the splinter-barked
tree a squirrel waits patiently for
its quotidian treats. In the far distance
the faint clatter of a darkly imagined
concatenation of quarrelsome crows.

His Memories

His memories are of fond recollection,
those of a young boy awed with the
white-bearded presence of a grandfather,
attention to the hesitant curiosity of a
child. There, too, are memories of a
stoop-backed, pleated-faced grandmother,
forever offering hugs and proudly warm
glances, along with little saucers
dancing with raisins and almonds.

So unlike his own father and mother,
his grandparents, though stooped
with age, exuded kindness and charity.
His father, he knew, depended on what
he construed as his entitlement to
another type of charity, claiming constant
financial need, when none was there,
dismaying and threatening the frail pair.

When the young boy grew older, married,
he brought his young wife to visit the
wisps that remained of his grandparents;
worn with time and the efforts of
existence, their faded presence still dear
without peer. Finally, three young
children of his own, there was a funeral,
for two aged people, expired in tandem.

Long-lived, the ancient man and his wife
took their leave of the sons and daughters
they had borne and those countless others,
successive generations, expanding the
pair's tenuously-transparent existence.
Themselves once young, moving relentlessly
toward the finality of elderly presence.

The heirlooms of the old couple's time
as progenitors of a wide brood, their
heritage and values assumed and widely
acclaimed. Their worldly wealth, modestly
valuable, distributed among the cast of
men and women who owed their
existence to the now-dear departed.

Two unobtrusive, small items went
unclaimed. The grandmother's simple,
unadorned marriage ring removed at
death, not left for the burial. The
grandfather's cherished horn-carved,
translucent, ochre shaded snuffbox.
Of no value to the acquisitive hoard,
dividing between them items of value.

Offered, as a last resort, to the grandson
and gratefully accepted. That grandchild,
now looking back, as advanced in frail
years now as was once his grandfather.

Grief, Apprehended

The atmosphere is inclined toward
summer, the inexorable pull of one
season sliding into another. The
sere landscape escaping winter has
been altered for the ephemeral
nonce as poplars, willows, maples
and birch have re-discovered warmth
and finally the elm and the oaks
hawthorns and ash have emerged
with their living green bowers
shading the seasonal wild flowers
and the burgeoning bracken below.

The forest has been, again, reborn.
Demeter, hearking nature, has so
declared; her mourning in suspension,
her eternal damnation of the jewel-
filled ruby pomegranate set aside, as
all living creatures celebrate her
reasonable accommodation to the
loss that will, of necessity, strike us
all. The forest has become the cathedral
where we give praise to the power and
the glory of the presence of us all.

The celebrants are many and varied
from those of the earth and the sky
to those of tree-bound dependency.
A bluejay calls out in sharp attention,
as a robin sings interminably, beseeching
worms to make their early-day
appearance. Dragonflies in search of
their meals flash iridescent against
blooming honeysuckle and dogwood.

The Best Garden Yet

A veritable galaxy of star-choices
sit tantalizingly, delightfully before
me, flats full of begonias, marigolds,
million bells, bacopa, petunias,
portulaca, gazania, lobelia, impatiens
and much, much more. A dazzling
array of colour, shapes, potential
to achieve - the best garden yet!

But those are the evanescent and
fleeting visitors to my garden, those
delicate growing things that must be
planted year after year. The garden
base are those robust dwellers who
know their place, the permanent
residents whose presence is taken
for granted, yet also celebrated.

The best garden yet is what is
achieved, year after planting year.
The decisions reflecting decorative
shadings and structural form; my
own variable aesthetic, achieved
with Nature's kind acquiescence.
Those perennials, trees, shrubs and
plants blooming when they will.

My garden, in fact, happily does
for itself, nurtured by nature's
seasonal emissaries reminding garden
residents of time and place to herald
their appearance. And in a timed
sequence of theatrical brilliance
they set their own stage, a succession
of brilliantly spaced performances.

The Greenhouse Nursery

Overwhelming the senses of an
already-spring-compromised
gardener yearning to plant all the
colourful annuals that her garden
can absorb, the eye is hopelessly
bedazzled by the array, neatly
presented, row by precise row, of
amazing colour, tantalizing perfume,
exotic shapes of wonderful dimensions,
arrayed in the greenhouse.

The gardener, absorbed with the
rigours and pleasures of this annual
ritual, the fantastic choreography
of the gardener's dilemma. These
are the days of dizzying decision-
making, heralding summer months'
lavish displays of ravishing form,
texture, fragrance and colour.

Heart-breakingly gorgeous displays
when the amateurs egoistically
mimic Nature's deft, certain hand.

These floral specimens represent
as living jewels, their presence
an organic reflection of the Earth's
surrender of rare minerals; emerald,
ruby, sapphire, amethyst, topaz,
coral gems. Ours to be had, to be
proudly presented in our gardens.

In Seasonal Praise

The brilliant song of a goldfinch
filters the morning air. Its bright
yellow form flirting through the
branches of a plum tree, its
presence flattering the golden
orb of the sun, blazing, unfolding
the crystalline lightness of spring.

From the garden, lilies-of-the-valley
and lilacs perfume the landscape.
Slight wisps of wind carry the
sound and the fragrances as far
as the eye can see. From another
tree, a robin burnished by the sun
trills welcome to another dawn.

Rose bushes, honeysuckle and
clematis send new life creeping into
place. Siberian lilies, bearded iris,
bleeding heart and mountain bluet
unabashedly contest one another
for pride of place in colour and form.

The garden's place is that of the
bees, the butterflies, the dragonflies
and the birds that drop by for
their casual, song-filled visits.

Woodland Hunt

Warmly and tenderly embraced by
spring, the woodlands' green haze of
days earlier has been transformed
into a voluptuous green canvass,
sheltering animals, birds and insects
from predatory view of the aerial
carnivores who fly above the fresh
green canopy sighting their prey.

The warming sun filters hazily
through the reborn landscape,
prodding late-spring wildflowers
to flaunt their heady-fragranced
presence. Wild cherry and apple,
and hawthornes have replaced the
Saskatoon berries. Bunchberries
blithely shine white floral faces
among the yellow, mauve violets.

Hawks circle and screech high-
pitched hunting calls. Crows flap
lazily, their wide, dark wings bold
against the perfect, untouched blue
of the sky. Cardinals whistle sharp
sweet songs. Butterflies, large and
small, slip through the languid air.

A tiny chipping sparrow, new from
its nest, fears flight, huddling for
comfort on the ground, wondering
where its home now will be, in that
wide, clear sky, the placid, newly-
leafed trees. Its tardy adaption
may soon sign its unfortunate fate.

Ambushed, Again, Misanthrope

Call it what you will, bushwhacked,
assaulted, yet it is sensitivity-,
sensibility-assaulting to become
vividly reminded of ourselves, how
we comport our presence on this
shared Globe, qualify and quantify
our existence by what we do - to,
for and of ourselves, singly, collectively.

There are options; become deliberately
unaware, shield oneself from the
constant reminders, shut out of
consciousness our utter lack of
humanity toward one another; shun
the daily firestorm of news assailing
our eyes and ears, the very inner
sanctuary of our frail souls.

Become a heedless, disinterested
bystander, averting our senses from the
senseless. Protect ourselves from utter
despair for we are helpless and of course,
blameless. The planet will still turn in
its orbit around the sun, the world will
proceed with its charnel-house events.

Events horrifying and eventually
steeling us to their constant occurrences
through the anaesthesia of indifference.
Wanting to know, to be responsibly
apprised and aware, responding in our
absurdly hopeless manner, this knowledge
captures us, demanding our recognition.

That we bear witness to the horrors,
exploitation, carnage, atrocities meted
out to the unfortunate by their tormentors.

This is the human race, a sensate,
emotion-beleaguered organism that
Nature evolved into a creature that
defies its maker, one she has generously
imbued with a creative mind, fully aware
of consequences, fully comfortable with
forging full-steam ahead, and damn
anything in our path to self-destruction.

Palatial. Decadent. Sigh.

In the market for a new house?
Ready to leave your current home?
Moving up and out ... looking for
something more upscale, perhaps
to reflect your inner self and its
yearnings? Look no further, ample
alternatives exist, awaiting your
notice, and ultimate decision.

"This property of approximately 12
acres on Hidden Oaks Golf Course
offers exceptional potential for a
magnificent private residence or
corporate retreat. There is a six-
bedroom, five and one-half bath
home with pool and spa already in
place within walking distance of beach."

"Unparalleled views highlight this nearly
14,000-square-foot Mediterranean
estate atop its own 86-acre knoll. Now
being built, the secured, six-bedroom,
nine-bath home with observation tower,
library and fireplaced living, dining and
family rooms will feature the finest
appointments. Property offers a wine
cellar, guest/pool house and maid's quarters."

"This outstanding custom-built waterfront
contemporary offers quality workmanship,
handsome design and walls of glass. Beveled
mirrors, sliding glass doors, Portuguese
marble and 24-karat gold fixtures in the
whirlpool tub are some of its many special
features. 100 feet of bulkhead have two
motorized boat lifts, deep water, 8 decks and
panoramic river and Atlantic Ocean views."

"Incomparable in design, this country
estate is majestically sited on 5 gently rolling
acres and is only minutes by car to the nation's
capital. The exterior is Classic in style, while
the dynamic interior features hand-glazed
walls, faux finishes, 2 master suites, four
additional bedrooms, tray-ceilinged living
room, great room with cathedral ceiling and
media center, billiard room and an exercise
suite. Sharing the property are a large
pool, spa, tanning platforms and stone patios."

Do not despair. Make enquiries. Gird
your resolve. Consider listing your home
with these realtors. Consider offering a trade.
Be creative, and self-assured! Yours, for
theirs. It's done, really it is, all the time.
Explain the pleasures of a more simple,
less complicated life within a less favourably
appointed, an admirably less complex structure.

Resulting in fewer concerns, far less upkeep.
Tell them about those modest expenses.
Say what a sacrifice you are willing to make
on their behalf, to simplify their lives, mate.