Spring Fungi

It appears as though the sky
is under the impression that it has
permanently leased its space
timeless as it is to clouds
unwilling to surrender their
temporary presence to the greater
ambition of shutting out the sun
accustomed to its daylight throne.
The stubborn cloud cover, itself
at times an enthralling spectacle
of fleeting heavenly landscapes
with a host of white and silver,
grey and black shapes assuming
the stage and sharing it with the
wind, an accomplice to weather
that dries or drenches, no friend
to floral decorations awaiting
their bloom time, anxious for the
light and heat of the fount of life.
Natures though does not play
favourites and the randomness
and the suddenness of weather
creates its own momentum of
all in good time. As thunder drums
yet again over the canopy of
the forest while another inundation
proceeds and the whisper of
foliage drowning ripples the
air, another species of floral
adornment on the forest floor
blossoms and blooms like a
rain-driven petalled floral ghost.

 

Force of Nature

That colossal heap of granite
slabs seasonal snow and ice
capping its summit in a long, slow
accelerating process to free
itself of winter and replenish the
rivers crossing its valleys
restoring life to the suspended
animation of the slumbering
wild creatures on its forested slopes
the gushing, tumbling streams
gathering momentum in a
thunder of freedom, frothing and
slapping the granite slopes in a
frenzy of wilderness life renewed.
The glacier-fed mountain lake
the colour of fresh chlorophyll
gleams scant light from an 
overcast sky, clouds above
pierced by surrounding summits
rain weepingly dimpling the surface
of the lake in a pattern of 
droplets, leaving crystalline
pearls resting on the newly-sprung
foliage of the new forest canopy.

 

Dusk In The Garden

Dusk falls in careful measure
slowly fogging the colours
of green, creeping on the warm
night air suffused with the
fragrance of lilacs, the
pervasive sweetness of
lilies-of-the-valley, and soon
the garden architecture, texture
and colour is all eclipsed
by night's enveloping embrace
while above the moon glides
in a sea of soft blue velvet.

Resign Yourself

This 2011 photo shows Iran's heavy water nuclear facility near the city of Arak, one of several sites that would be impacted by a landmark deal with world. (Photo: Hamid Foroutan, AP)

Resign Yourself

A word to those cowering in nervous 
suspense: no need. Rest easy, there are 
no existential threats such as
consumed the world when two
ideologies, two nations faced each other 
with challenging enmity, one with the 
mantle of individual rights, the other 
with the assurance of collective harmony, 
each dedicated to the creation of a
superior global social construct having 
slain the Fascist beast. Wars, from the 
heat of battle to the cool calculation of a
nuclear button, have been vanquished. 
No longer do elite demagogues, fanatical 
charlatans, twisted religious figures and
absolute monarchs without conscience 
dominate and threaten. And consider, 
heads of state who still loathe one another
express commitment to the discourse 
of reason and the need for vigilance 
in global security. It is why nations involved 
in low-level carnage and human rights 
violations religiously send delegates 
to vital international events on diminishing 
the number of weapons of mass destruction
in their arsenals, discussing such matters 
as co-signatories invested in the 
Proliferation Security Initiative. So why 
worry? Should human frailty fail to restrain
the occasional lapse, we will never
know the outcome. Ignorance = bliss.

Caveman Redux

What a mysterious process it is
that transformation. Cultural
anthropologists should have a
revelatory field day with the
wide-spread phenomenon. Women
recognize the symptoms, an arcane
regression to primitive eras, as
they sigh with both relief and
exasperation. Relief that finally
someone else is shouldering the
meal preparation chores,
exasperation at the lack of orderly
progress and the accumulation of
culinary implements which in all
fairness to the alternate cook, they
are now obliged to clean in a tidy
world of marital cooperation.
Strange the enthusiasm that engulfs
ordinarily normal men when
summer arrives and the cover on
the family barbecue is removed.
The household is entertained and 
palates are piqued by rubs and
marinades and unlikely ingredient
combinations that often work
chemical and taste-bud magic.
The primal hunter with his ancient 
memory stirred to life through the 
brain alchemy of vestigial nostalgia.

Of The Season

Above the canopy of the urban
forest a hawk wheels on the
wind, whistling to its mate. Offside,
the grind of a faroff lawn mower
reverberates on the damp, still
air punctuated by the sweet song
of a robin in praise of plentiful
hunting emerging after the all-day
rain of the day before. The forest
has been gifted this day with sun
rays glimmering through the
spring canopy to find wild
strawberry, trout lilies and trilliums
before they fade into late spring.
Above the bracken on the forest
floor, honeysuckle and dogwood,
Hawthorne and wild cherry bloom
not yet divested of their glory
by relentless time inevitably 
moving the season forward.

Perspective

The sky has become a vault
of weeping frustration permeating
the atmosphere, glazing the flowers
in my garden. The rain persistent
insistent as though compelled
to prove its inestimable value
to a garden and all living things.
Impelling rain clouds to
adversarially block the brilliant
life-giving warmth and light
of the sun, indispensable to 
life itself, hardly a matter of
competition, logically. Each has
its place in existence and the
nature of matter. Each in excess
or in the absence of one the other
can create disaster. Immoderate
presence of one or the other is
capable of destroying life. In the
rain drenching my garden the
prospect of a dawning sun
tomorrow strikes the right balance.
The landscape of my world of 
particularly good fortune.

The Well-Mannered 
Garden
There, it's decided, my hand
obeying the gardener's implacable
muse with its pitiless eye
espying within the orderly
precincts of favoured perennials
an intruder uninvited and 
therefore cursed to the oblivion
of swift separation from 
nurturing Mother Earth. The
swift, dismayed wilt of the
sweet tender stalk of a plant
albeit pleasing when planted
has the gall to replicate itself
without prior consultation
representing an intolerable
breach of garden etiquette. So
the tidily tender new plant
eager to prepare itself for a
robust future is abruptly disabused
of the quaint sense of flora
entitlement. For no self-respecting
gardener would permit the insouciant
anarchic bloom of lilies of
the valley, bleeding heart
Ladies Mantle and other self
starting enthusiasts to detract
from the perfection of the 
well-ordered garden. Beauty of
form, texture and fragrance
aside, order must prevail.

Debating Nature

Nature has no designs in her
universal blueprint management
toward moderation. And we 
humans complain bitterly to our
imperious landlady, but she is
stalwartly impervious to our
pleas. She can, with good reason,
point out that the covenant of
the Golden Mean is a human
construct, nothing to do with her
style of command and existence,
so in our sanctimony groans about
the unfairness of her indifference
to human suffering at avalanches
earthquakes, volcanic eruptions,
tsunamis, tornadoes, cyclones
and droughts, famine or floods
she shrugs, advising us to examine
our pathetic record on moderation
resulting in deliberate suffering
imposed on our fellow man
because of greed and malice,
jealousy and hatred leading to
conflict and imposed migrations
if not mass surrender to death.

 

Spring's Disfavour

Though spring is surely the
favourite season of humankind
it is a season not well beloved
by nature herself, it seems. Which
appears by all reasonable first-person
accounts to heave a cold shoulder
of unwelcome when spring
finally comes calling. Yet she is
not her mother nature's favoured
child despite she is unfailingly
polite, demure and wholesomely
chaste, never barging her way into
the landscape like some we could 
name, but sensitively and charmingly
entering when it is clear enough
that brash winter has overstayed
its welcome. Still, nature encourages
him to linger, and so he does
infuriatingly though his powers
have diminished. On offer this
evening closing in on June, 
frost waiting for night to fall
and the temperature will follow.
The sky a wide, cloud-emptied
sea of blue, a sliver of silver moon
the sole witness to tender plant life
shrinking in dismay through the
cruel chill imposed on spring.

 

Spring Renewal

It is the most familiar renaissance 
of all, renewal time in the forest
trees proudly bearing their
verdant banners of spring,
foliage so eager to erupt on
bare branches as though nature
created a time-lapse warp to
salve the embarrassment of
tree nudity. And on the forest
floor  a sudden burst of energy
as ferns, meadow rue, baneberry,
trilliums, trout lilies, foamflower,
honeysuckle, dogwood, Hawthorne
and Serviceberry erupt in a mad
concatenation of triumphant
presence, while Mourning Cloaks
and bees, robins and cardinals
re-acquaint themselves with
the lush, living green of a
landscape of perpetual renewal.

 

The Complainant

We do so sigh with exasperated
frustration at the global seasons
and the weather patterns that
accompany them. Pining for
the warmth and brightness 
of the sun during long, cold
and darkly imposing winter months
when the initial wonder and
beauty of snow and ice wear
thin their welcome and we
fume over our helplessness
clinging to the hope that time
will not forget its duties,
ushering winter out for another
year, welcoming spring, then 
summer heralding our salvation.
Until the sun burns too hot in
our atmosphere and we thank
the wind for cooling us and
dissipating stinging pests.
Yesterday was intolerably hot
and humid and the wind rescued
us from misery. Today nature's
mischief has turned to cold, wind
brisk enough for linked discomfort.
And the fruit trees which yesterday
enchanted our spirits with the
bounteous beauty of its blooms
are now naked, those tender petals
dispersed like snow in May, the
landscape transformed as we melt
one day with heat exhaustion and
shiver the blighted day afterward.

 

The Nasty Bullies

Let's face it. You're not a very
nice person. Here's the thing of it:
if dogs are known to take on the
personality of their owners,
patterning themselves with what
they're most familiar, you're a dud.

It was your cute little juvenile dog
of elite entitlement that hurled
abuse at an adorable fluffball of
a puppy, which took no notion
of that hostile display of ill manners.

So obviously, my friend, you have
set an example that is nothing
to be proud of. As in shame on you.
Can we call it owner-abuse of a
vulnerably trusting little canine?

 

The Puppy Siblings

They are part of nature's bestiary
merciless savages, muscle and sinew
tooth and claw, exhilarated by the
red flush of conquest, each intent
on capturing the initiative, taunting
one another to hardened battle
no quarter given, none expected
in their furious drive to win advantage.
Fearless and uninhibited they snarl
and threaten then close in for the
lunge, the parry, the thrust, their
rapier-sharp teeth prepared to exact
maximum damage. Wrestling one
another to the ground, snapping and
growling, they break into a whirlwind
chase, a blur of flying black fur,
one leading, the other feinting and
a short cut succeeding in breaking 
the mad momentum. Exhausted,
their lunatic fury dissipated, they
caress one another's eyes, licking
away umbrage, curl into a close
ball of sleepy puppyhood, and doze.

Reciprocation

Have you ever noticed
that some people thrive on
being noticed, on receiving
compliments or congratulations,
noticeably preening, beaming
with pride and pleasure, yet
those same people cannot 
find it within their narrow
souls to note the accomplishments
of others, as though to do so
is beneath their dignity and
would diminish the impact of
their own successes. Generosity
of spirit clearly bypassed them
perhaps by choice when they
were selecting emotional
attributes from the womb.
Others' triumphs and achievements
seem to pain them, so they take
measures not to notice lest
the green worm of jealousy
contort and twist their viscera.

 

Gardening Pleasure

Perhaps it is because each
time I glance out the door or a
summertime window onto the
gardens surrounding our house, 
I am awed anew by nature's
complex beauty. The colours,
forms, texture and fragrance 
of a well-mannered garden
imparts pleasure and no little
amount of personal satisfaction.
I can scarce believe that assisted
by nature I can be responsible
for the landscape my eyes celebrate
when I return home to the fresh
loveliness of flowers in proud
display, reflecting my vision of
Eden. So yes, of course I enjoy
the challenge, the odour of damp,
dark soil, the emergence of
spring bulbs, perennials and
trusted old standbys fulfilling
their seasonal promise. I appreciate
the presence of birds drinking
from a birdbath and singing
in praise of the season, butterflies
and bees in pursuit of their life's
purpose. But I do draw the line
at hordes of stinging insects
with no respect for the author of
the arras they occupy, as
hostile witness to garden chores.

The Conversation

To note that they have 
developed a most peculiar
sensibility is to understate
their truly odd balance in 
nature for who might have
imagined small juvenile
delinquent puppies mastering
gardening and penmanship,
idle pursuits felt to be the
purview of their mistress.
Yet she has discovered their
dainty penchant for browsing
in her rock garden particularly
fascinated by Hens-'n-chicks
confusing the smaller fleshy
'chicks' as delightful morsels.
Chidingly I ask how they
would feel pried away from
their mother's bosom, and
they cock their heads, musing
on my ignorance, for of course
they had been. I leave off pen
and notebook, scribbles done,
and the two black miscreants
leap the table for triumphant
possession of pen and notebook;
extraordinarily tasty nibbles
they advise me, solemnly.

Black Marauders

We've been on this trip
before, but somehow it is all
the beguiling pleasures involved
in raising clever and rambunctious
puppies we envisage, rarely do we
recall the frustration, the irritation
and endless patience required
to transform wild little creatures
into calmly sensible maturity
becoming life's companions.
While we chuckle at their
hilarious escapades, wince at
their interminable accidents,
marvel that such small animals
rampaging through a house are
capable of clattering floorboards
like a brace of bull elephants, we
watch, fascinated as they rise to
bipedalism, raising paws like
trained athletes to box, then
wrestle with one another, fiercely
baring teeth in mock conflict, those
black siblings, each the very 
essence of mischief incarnate,
together a brace of devil's spawn.

A Life

As a tenured academic, a
scientist specializing in botany,
a born naturalist and an intrepidly
avid birder he has been places
done things that most have not.
A raconteur with a robust sense of
humour intact, he forwarded an
unsolicited manuscript detailing
his many and varied adventures
in nature to his textbook publisher
hoping it might elicit interest.
That's a fond hope. Hope is vital
to his condition. He no longer
plays his beloved squash, but 
he does venture out on long walks.
His appetite is not depressed, he
has lost no weight and he feels
pretty good. That's the good news.
On the iffy news side he is
embarking on yet another round
of chemotherapy. His oncologist
and radiologist have no empowering
news to impart after diagnosing
the non-results of his last round.
Condition unchanged, the mass
undiminished, this hale and hearty
man in the prime of his mature
years grapples with his future,
himself now diagnosing words like
advanced, rampant, metastasized.
And of course, inoperable.

Skagit River, British Columbia

May 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photographs courtesy J.S. Rosenfeld

How's Your Day?

Trite it may be, but true
nonetheless, you feel this has
been the day from hell, and think
nothing can get any worse, but
guess what? it can. You're tired
and miserable, dispirited and 
disappointed, fearful of raising
your head just in case bad luck
is aiming another of its reeking
spitballs at you, and you just know
that would be the breaking point.
You can't handle another 
cross-eyed look from fate
bad-tempered enough to let you
have it again. Think positive ... of
this day's unlovely personal gifts
as a test of your fibre, your mettle,
your character, able to withstand
a firestorm of setbacks on your
way to the future. After all, there
are far worse things happening to
people every day, in every way, 
all over the world, and mostly
they survive and you will too,
albeit in a really foul mood you'd
do best to keep to yourself.

Whose Day?

We carry them to term
give birth, nurture, protect
teach and love our progeny.
This primal animal instinct 
is imprinted into our genes
our function compelled by
Nature by which survival
of the species is assured.
That primary function has
been left to enterprising interests
to sanctify as a guaranteed
commercial success story by
imbuing motherhood as a
hallowed fundamental second
to none. A pro forma social
occasion all must dutifully
surrender to, risking otherwise
appearing an ungrateful savage.
Let's hope there exists a plentiful
number of women for whom the
day is just another, who prefer
the daily regard they are subject
to, laughing off the staged
insincere manipulation commerce
forces in recognition of 
motherhood, redundant to
the expression of love, trust
and authentic appreciation sans
exchange of coin for profit.

Reflection

They appear somewhat the
worse for wear, but it's been
an admittedly hard winter for
rural folk. Now that spring
has truly arrived, they set out
the product they specialize in
bedding plants for the urban
gardener, playing at life in the
countryside. We greet, as old
acquaintances seeing one 
another briefly over a succession
of years. They are the original
salt-of-the-earth and we do so
admire their industry, providing
us with the basis of aesthetic
growing pleasure in the glowing
jewel colours of flowers
enlivening our summer lives.
Passing pleasantries and
recapturing family news in
brief we note how aged they
have become, bodies slumped,
faces creased, eyes dimming, 
and feel regret, on their behalf.
Driving home, catching a glimpse
of our own faces we realize
that what we've noted, they too
must have recognized in us.

Topic: Humankind

The human race is besotted
with itself, endlessly fascinated
by itself, indulges in myriad
explorations in search of answers
about itself and has over the
millennia of the spoken word
transferred legends to form the
basis of its library all accounting
for human existence and exploits
on a planet primally colonized
and shaped to fit human ingenuity
so capable of manipulating its
environment. We read in an
omnivorous hunger to discover
how, when, why and where our 
emotions and controlling spirit
takes us. Those imbued with
insight or even merely the
self confident belief that they
have mastered a level of
self-knowledge are acclaimed
as historians, novelists, leading
us into the inner world of their
imaginations, as we devour their
language, are enthralled with the
wisdom of their introspection
and exit their celebrated minds
reluctantly, none the wiser.

There Are Limits

Let there be no doubt this is 
a prize possession. Built in 1860
it is sturdy, almost impervious to
wear but worn well by those whose
home it was over the years, farmers
and their families, working the land
and providing food for theirs and
yours, a proud tradition. The land
now fallow, the seventy acres of
field and forest in genteel display
to hold apiaries, grow organic
root crops, and home to nostalgia,
a windmill refurbished, and a
draft horse treasured, the menagerie
completed with your rescue dogs
and cats, a full dozen withal.
Back then people worked hard
and stayed fit. The house, since
modernized and fleshed out with
plumbing, electricity, updated
with must-have appliances and a
tractor, was built to last and it has
yet moderation was the key to
its old bones, refusing now to
accept your queen-sized bed.


 

Everlasting Spring

It lifts the human spirit as
few other events of Nature are
capable of, the timeless assurance
that what has passed will
inevitably resurge, like the
proverbial Phoenix; perish only
to return in a blaze of glorious
life renewed. That eternal
assurance forms the bedrock
of hope and trust, that the
revolving cycle of death and
birth are universal to our
primal existence extending to
the present and surging into the
future. A colossal, unfathomable
clockwork of endlessness of
which we represent a minuscule 
afterthought, but one we
experience throughout our brief
appearance in time and place on
this planet, feeling the warm earth
in our hands as spring returns
and we plant, nurture and glean
with Nature's patient tutelage.

Oh, The Pain of It!

Vanity and unrealistic but ever
hopeful aspirations motivate me
from refraining to sensibly discard
what no longer fits. Items of treasured
apparel become even more treasured
when by some mysterious alchemy
clothing once so becoming no longer
can be buttoned, zipped and struggled
into. This is a poor reward, I mutter
for appreciating colour and design.
Yet I cannot bear to part with them
thinking, promising myself that
by next season I will firmly confront
my appetite, and trimmer, all those
valued garments will fit again, then
I grimly pack them away to await
summer. Hauling out that summer
wardrobe and holding my breath in
anticipation and the fervent wish 
that it will be enough to reduce that
expanded waistline ... good grief
those trousers fit! Then I primp and
I preen, until suddenly recalling that
those were a pair too large last year,
yet tucked away with the others. In
chagrin I view myself, grimacing.