Flying Blind

New to building a family and
without recourse to seeking advice
from the usual sources of wisdom
by consultation or library stack
access, the pair fell back on reliance
of inbred group memory and
resolved to practise method. Two
nests were almost completed
then abandoned, but the third
attempt, though lacking aesthetic,
succeeded, and the female dutifully
laid her male-fertilized eggs
while he spent weeks in nearby
devoted attendance, gifting her
with writhing worms. Faith in 
their parenthood destiny has been
rewarded with mother robin
warming her nestlings and
both parents consumed with the
need to feed and feed and feed
their fledglings in the desperate
need to fulfill nature's blueprint
for survival; trapped in a net that
led them from carefree independence
to nerve-wracking pleasure- and
leisure-destroying responsibility.

Her Moods

The signs of her mood distemper
clearly caution to view the day
with due regard for her brooding
presence. No need for alarm, simply
awareness that symbolic of her
extended empire as ruler of all
that exists, she may, without
provocation, assemble her
atmospheric devices to plot
raging winds blasting searing heat
and catastrophic downpours 
causing either wildfires or flooding
to suddenly erupt before she 
again regains the moderation and
grace of presence we so much
prefer to praise her for, as the
most powerful influence in our
dependent lives; we mortals who
tremble before the unrestrained
majesty and might of nature.

 

 

Aspire!

Though we have it on impeccable
authority, I have my doubts that the
Garden of Eden was such a marvellous
place of fecund order and beauty beyond
belief. I don't believe it to have been other
than the template for gardens to follow.
And the reason for that is simple; Eden
was a place of secret mischief, where
the forces of devilish misdeeds were
hard at work transforming it into a
state of rebellion. How else explain that
Eve was dissatisfied with the life of ease
and plenty she shared with Adam there?
I can see its echoes in my own tiny
garden where all attempts to impose
order fail. Beauty there is, as though by
default, since nature designs and permits
it to flaunt itself with or without my puny
ministrations. But tidiness and regimentation?
Not very likely, since the plants lovingly
tended by the gardener give short shrift
to obedience. They perform as they will
and not as I will them to. They cluster
and they push others aside, they demand
admiration and haughtily deign to flower
and to wane and return another year
but on their own terms, certainly not
mine. The garden represents a natural
conspiracy whose inhabitants appear to
take great pleasure in frustrating anyone
foolish enough to believe that as a gardener
hard work, design and aspirations to
produce a superb work of living art is
attainable. But in the search of perfection
it is always the garden that has the last 
word; the word that Eve used her wiles
to persuade Adam to take that fateful
bite. The rest is, as they say, commentary.

 

Painterly Landscape

Fidelity to a landscape is in the
eye of the beholder. Love of nature
and the environment created  by
the consummate creator, displaying
scenes of elegance and beauty transport
what is viewed from the lens of the
beholder to the heart of the matter.
Should that eyesight reflect the
gifted artistry of a painter, then the
object is to borrow from nature
her impeccable sense of time and place
her masterly handling of form and
colour, the architecture of the 
landscape whose majesty has awed
and motivated the ardent onlooker
to emulate, as much as possible the
spirit of the world of nature that
cradles us and urges us to make of
that world our own within which we
are given generous leave to share
gently in the bounty of living treasures.

Consider This

Consider: When we are children
sulking in injured self-regard
from punishment for ill behaviour
the child's imagination sorrowfully
conjures injury or death intervening
and the Gothic drama of parental
anguish as the well deserved outcome
befalling those who led the child
to the misery of feeling abandoned.
That scenario serves as a sop to satisfy
vengefulness. The child matured
in time learns -- or does not -- how
to navigate such emotions' and
resentments' shoals of self-harm.
Then in old age, a revelation and
a responding reaction. To cling to
life despite expectations of due
departure and inheritance. That
those upon whom once was lavished
parental love and pride can damn
well wait their turn, for the elderly
are not to be rushed into surrender.

Guide to the Perplexed

If there's a feather to be found lying
within sight on a trail in the forest
she will sight it, stoop and claim it
as her very own. It may once have
adorned a bluejay, a goldfinch, a
song sparrow or a robin, but once in
hand the precious object is hers alone.
She could be mistaken for a waif
yet is never seen other than beside
her mother. As a young adult it is 
difficult to discern her gender
hidden within clothing that gives
no hint, much less a voice seldom
used for she is shy-to-mute whereas
her mother is never silent always
prepared to impart to the curious
other her store of woodland  lore.
Ah, but I know her secret, the puffy
old wrinkled woman standing beside
the sleek hermaphrodite, for she
fetched the mystical creature from
the forest, to beguile and to speak
the language of that place which no
one else perceives, a child of the
wilderness bewildered by her new
role, guide to a nursery-tale-misplaced
childhood-frightening old witch.

Dear Soul

She is wafer-thin, though
confessing to a sturdy appetite.
Her face pale and deeply creased,
neck encasing chin, her white hair
a spin of silk a hummingbird could
nest in. She sways at my doorstep,
burdened by a bag of fresh-picked
strawberries and just-preserved quince
jam. Her watery-blue orbs smile, as
her narrow mouth catches up. Soon
we sit together, talking confidentially,
her voice so soft it strains my ears
to decipher the murmuring cadence.
But her words and the sincerity
of her request penetrate and I
respond: yes, please do pray for me.
Finally, she toddles unsteadily
back home, turning to wave once
more, a sweetly faded apparition.

Dynamic Duo

Theirs really is the life, two small 
rascally dogs whose affection
for each other is predictable as the
only offspring of a litter. Knowing 
no life other than the one they
pursue with such gusto, rivals and
pals quick to challenge each other
in mad dashes, boxing matches and
wrestling bouts; look-alikes to
onlookers, they are not perfectly
identical since he is lanky and
she full-bodied; she is bold while
he is cautious; he has an elegant
natural grace that eludes her; and
he can leap higher, faster, further
while she hangs back aware of her
limits. To the discerning eye of those
intimately familiar, living with these
binary specimens, character traits
set them apart as does their
individualized facial features and
expressions, so that what they share in
common; mischief, habits and an
unerring sense of timeliness as in:
let's go! let's eat! bed time! gotta go!
only their house companions recognize.

Life's Mysteries

I loved him. Doesn't everyone
love a brother? A brother who was
the proverbial family favourite, the
youngest, the baby in the family. He
was no longer the baby when he
breathed large and long of the world
we live in discovering his fascination
with soft drugs and inviting me to
turn on. I was turned on, I told him,
life does that for me. I knew full well
that he too was fully absorbed in life
in all its details, its creatures, the nature
that surrounds us. He became a man
who loved to live large, and he did
just that, enjoying the world to its
fullest. Yet that fascination with drugs
was a constant presence in his life.
Never intruding, simply distracting
and perhaps in his mind adding to 
the pleasure he took in life, for he
did. I did mention he was the baby
of the family since I was already a
teen when he was born, an adored
infant. So it's hard to believe that he's
gone, so soon, well before his time.
I'm the one still turned on with life.

 

The Home Salon

No skilled pet groomer am I
so this is an exercise of
laboured love conducted with
great delicacy; no professional
shave-and-a-haircut easefully
accomplished with speed and
aplomb. No, this effort is
time-consuming where patience
is a definite asset, for the subjects
of my study in canine hairdressing
and their trust in me, wielding
worrying shears. Their reaction
to my intentions swift and
visceral once the tools of
toilette are assembled and
clearly interpreted. My murmurs
of comforting ease unheeded
as I haul first one then the other
out of their futile hiding places,
too well known. Time trickles by
as a succession of scissors see
cautious duty and fluffy black
hair flies in the open-air breeze
until each painstaking involuntary
shedding is complete and the
unhappy but compliant prisoner
to the trim is released, shorn and
slighter, as close a facsimile to
fitness to appear tidily in the
public sphere as they ever will be, 
our two mischievous black imps.

An Ill Wind

Outside our door a ravening
wind hurls the hot breath
of this summer day at our
wilting garden. It was as a zephyr
gentling the arid heat greeting us
earlier as we rambled the urban
morning forest. Ushering in a
new weather front, it is now
a virago, shrieking down the
chimney into the fireplace.
Its malice is such that it
heartlessly plucks petals 
from the garden roses and peonies
shredding foliage and laying low
shrubbery. The wicked partnership
of parching heat and merciless
wind play wretched havoc as a
barbarian offensive destroying
the cultivated civility of
evanescent beauty, brilliant
in its seasonal evolution, sad
to behold under these destructively
ill-tempered assaults.

 

Raising Nestlings

Not too close cautions my
husband, careful you'll alarm her,
she's sitting on eggs. Yes, I
knew that, the constant concerned
presence of the soon-to-be papa
hovering on nearby tree branches
is itself a continual reminder
that though I had the impression
that this is my backyard, I must
also acknowledge it is the 
nature-entitled venue of a pair
of robins' nursery, carefully
assembled under a joist of the
elevated deck. Why here, when
a perfectly acceptable urban forest
of respectable dimensions is
but a moment's flight distance?
Yes, I know, it is the obstinence
of the female of the species.

 

Dream Reality

It is one of those works in
progress, the healing of a 
sorrowful heart. And time is
working on it. Its healing distance
yet to fully make its mark. They
were just two very small dogs
yet their constant presence in
our lives were so vital and
profound their absence has left
little solace to be found in the
distance of time. Dreams recur
where we desperately search
for them in our anxiety to
take them home again before
some dread misfortune befalls
those little creatures so dependent
on us for life and upon whom we
were so dependent to bring
unalloyed joy to our lives.

Backyard Haven

Nature gifts her creatures with
the endowment of natural wisdom,
a species-specific collective memory
called instinct to aid in the struggle
for survival facing all her creatures.
From that living memory born in
the crucible of primal experience
the avian species migrate and return
build nests and raise fledglings to
repeat the endless cycle of life. The 
robins in our backyard shun that 
instinct for the joy of spontaneity
preferring to build a multi-faceted
condominium under the elevated
floor of our backyard deck. They
may prefer obstacles to security
and serenity, viewing the clatter
we invariably make on the deck and 
the frantic barking of our dogs, as
music delightful as their own
syncopated warbling. Or, perchance
appreciate challenges to be overcome
injecting the thrill of excitement into
an otherwise mundane existence?

 

The Rite of Existence

They were not invited into my
orderly, tidy garden. Just suddenly
appeared. As though their immature
status conferred innocence of intent.
Right, no intention to invade, to 
venture where they were not expected. 
As though the fact their parents
had been escorted into the garden
gave them free reign to romp there,
entitled. Their stealth appearance
no longer surprises. I've grown long
accustomed to the arrogance of
certain species and their sleazy, fecund
habit of sloughing off shoots to
infiltrate the garden beds where the
fastidious gardener has not planned
their presence. That's you I'm speaking
of, Columbine, Bleeding Heart,
violets, Ladies Mantle, Mountain
Bluet; lovely undisciplined invaders!

 

In Life's Barnyard

Absolutely, this is not the home
of the Little Red Hen of fable fame
to whom no one offered willing assistance
in reaping the grain and grinding it
then helping to bake the bread
whose heavenly fragrance brought
all the disinterested 'helpers' to
the dinner table, complacent in
their entitlement to enjoy the bread
representing the little hen's labours.
No, when this household first
assembled itself, an unspoken and
fervent desire to partner in all
tasks and enjoy their rewards
established the order of our
tandem lives. Though there are
indeed tasks monopolized by one
or the other, a division of equality
still pervades our lives, together
working to achieve mutual
satisfaction with the finished product
of our long, loving and happy lives
together, this  hen and rooster.

Embrace Me!

You reach out to gather me
in an embrace whose enduring
care and love has always assured me.
Yet, firm in the grasp of your devotion
I am never fully content as my
inner child cries more, tighter,
love me! You embrace and enclose
me, wrap me in the muscular pull
of your arms, rock me and soothe
me as the woman I am speaks
with the urgency of need, appealing
that you never stop, never loosen
your grip, never draw apart.
Never stop loving me. My greedy
inner child implores and demands
more! more! more! Hold me tight
and tighter still, I murmur with
all the passionate urgency a
whisper can muster. Until my 
soul is fully assured and reaches
complacency. Be forewarned, that
time will never come. Embrace me!

 

The Forest Floor

Deep and rich and moistly fecund
the humus on the forest floor
reflecting the endless cycle of
rest and rebirth, the destiny of all
living things to outlive their time
to die and to prepare the way for
their species' survival, hosts multitudes
of living organisms, those that exist
below the leafmold shed by the
deciduous forest above and the
castoff needles of their coniferous
cousins, the fungi that thrives on
rotting cellulose, the insects that
live under bark, the woodpeckers
that search out their larvae, all
contributing to the timeless cycle
of renewal. Standing on that forest
floor are the remnants of trees whose
lifesap has abandoned the roots
leaving the trunk to decay and
finally tumble to add to the detritus
contributing to the process of renewal.
And beside those fallen trunks and
often atop them the slender saplings
of future trees hosting outsized foliage
along with the promise of the future.

A Kindred Soul

Her thin mouth twisted in a rictus
of offended disdain, she speaks
quietly but with the authority of
one entitled to her views through
the lens of her former profession
as a teacher of 'juvenile delinquents'
as she puts it so eloquently,
skilled at defying the civility of
social convention, precocious
little monsters whose parents simply
passed their own social consciences
to their offspring. Nothing short of
scandalous that society has such
shallow values, that illiteracy has
soared because everyone is fixated
on electronic devices and the
pitiful facade of social engagement
sites rampant with celebrity worship
and rank hypocrisy. The more enraged
she becomes as she speaks during our
chance encounter, the quieter and
more deadly becomes her voice in
stark condemnation of all that 
represents the social system and
peoples' flaccid priorities, a total
failure of community and  values
where commerce rules, humanity
its disciples. And while I may agree
on many of these points, I'm aghast
at the venom of her expression and
wonder what it is about me that enabled
her to identify me as a kindred soul.

The Jewelled Garden

 Overhead the ceiling of the world
droops with the weary burden of
stubborn grey rainclouds, a dreary
prospect for the day, yet nature is
prepared to embark on one of her
spectacular landscape paintings.
The day is dark and menacing but
the garden scintillates with the
varnish of rain clinging to the jewel
tones of nature's precious minerals
in shades of emerald, ruby, sapphire 
amethyst, aquamarine and aventurine
reflected gloriously on the foliage
and blossoms luxuriantly embellished
following the sun's loving embrace.
It is the minuscule presence of diamonds
sparkling from their descent from the
heavens above that create the complete
and perfect gem-studded garden.
The incandescent colour and form
a benediction of grace to a day 
otherwise consigned to sheltering
from copious rainfall, yet so kindly
disposed to the grateful garden.

Strangers and Friends

Seated in a large and quiet public
waiting room, from his distance
the stranger lifts his eyes from his
cellphone and smiles at me. An instant
thought races: too old for a casual
pick-up -- me, that is, and him as well.
I return his smile and he asks how am I?
How am I? At the moment puzzled, but
I respond: well, thank you. As he moves
his seat close to mine he unleashes a
series of questions revealing he knows
intimate details of my life, but I have
no idea who this man is. He smiles
again and acknowledges that I don't
recall who he is, so when he prods
my memory with a few succinct words
it's my turn to ask questions, after a
gasp escapes my mouth. There is an
affirmation of deep-seated friendship 
belying the casual nature of our
relationship and we update one another
on family matters with warmth and
affection. When we finally part it
is with a deep embrace and sadness.
We have always acknowledged the
shared sentiments and emotions common
to us both, even while his extended
tribe has been assassinating members
of mine without stop in the Middle East.

Her Story

Not an only child she was a
lonely child, a dreamer whose
imagination carried her to a place
where dreams were the order of
her day, every day. Where her
companions were words
threaded in an endless collection
of stories where people like her
looked for companionship and
in the process forged their lives
or found them wanting, abandoning
the search in a despair of 
realization that life for them is
an open, lonely desert. She,
nothing if not determined, still
searches for the meaning that
eludes her, the companion she
has not yet met between the
covers of a printed book. Yet, on
occasion she has glimpsed
rounding the corner of a street
that elusive partner, as though
oblivious of her search for his
presence; getting on with his life.

The Personal Garden

It never occurs to us that our
garden conceit truly is an indulgence
of nature herself. We regard our gardens
as personalized reflections of ourselves
our love of the natural world, our
appreciation of the beauty that reflects
that world and our capacity for 
manipulating it to our satisfaction.
The garden is a sight to behold
capturing in a micro landscape what
our aesthetic mind and tender hands
are capable of producing. Random
sights of our garden beds reproducing
a tidy notion of nature conforming to
our fastidious and orderly inclinations
imagining that the result mirrors
what nature herself would deign to
produce gives us huge pleasure in the
pride we take as gardeners. And the
garden is more than willing to lend
itself to the charade, as vain as we are.
The complexities inherent in form and
function, the architecture of trees and
shrubs, the texture of foliage and blossoms
the colours and the scents are all, it
cannot be denied, mystical and engorge
our senses with admiration and no little
amount of self-satisfaction. The garden
in the lens of close scrutiny, detailed
and lovely, expanding to present its
totality of presence is like a set of
mirrors forever parading before our
naive eyes its endless vistas. Leading us
to forget that they are merely ours on
loan by their owner, Mother Nature.


 

Twilight, Time, Infinity

Twilight. Time and infinity trickle
on. Night begins to fall, and darkness
sets its course reflecting the ineffable
absence of light beyond the
reckoning of the human mind.
Yet that same mind -- in an embrace
of its primitive origins harbours
a notion of a cosmos threatening
in its vast indifference to existence
while yet providing the scattered
molecules and atomic subparticles
 of chemicals that precede life --
wonders in those times when 
sleep eludes in the cool, still darkness 
of night what other specimens
of life might have chanced their way
into existence and whether there is
any resemblance to the minds and
souls of humankind, and if so
is life on this planet threatened?

The Invisible Elderly

She is a grey wisp of a woman
with a wispy voice as faint and
unassuming as her faded presence.
When Margaret, toddling down the
street, is yet distant even other
elderly residents whose eyesight has
begun to fail have no problem
identifying her ghostly gait. Fittingly
one supposes, she is otherwise
invisible to most other residents
save those whom the passage of time
has tamped into the residuals
category. Leave it to Margaret
with her vanishing presence to trip
over a palette at a garden centre
and tip herself forcefully into a
nice pile of decorative rocks. Face
first, of course. Now, her pallid
complexion has some interesting
colour though purple-and-charcoal
bruising do not come first to mind
as fashion-centric save for the elderly
given to falling. She has, however
most certainly become visible.

The Parched Garden

My garden muse is wise in the
manner of philosophy. She favours
the fabled Golden Mean of antiquity
though also subscribing to its
ruder, more folksy manifestation
esteemed by those who cling to the
comfort of nursery tales. Call it
moderation or the Goldilocks syndrome; 
too much or too little are devilishly 
problematic. So the muse has taken to 
scolding nature, for it pains her no end 
to see flowers shrivel and greenery wilt
as wind howls while the uncluttered
sky invites the summer sun to parch
the garden. Withholding rain dampens
the ardour of the garden to flourish
and bloom, transforming beauty to
despair. Then came the rain, not 
sweet and gentle, but in a ferocious 
downpour without end, leaving the
garden sadly sodden, the inundation
bedraggling the garden in a sad
and sorry choreograph of root rot 
and perishing plants. The muse in my
garden is not the least bit amused.