poem in progress...."Forcing Forsythia"

Forcing Forsythia

After so many years
I finally reply.

Barren seasons stretched
across all those snowy
New England winters,
hushed and swathed thick
in white and ice.
Our first words flared
fast and faded
until I hardly remember
what cooled them.

When I finally write you,
my words
are narrow gnarled stubs,
tight fists, hardly budded
and shivering
after so much
cold rain.

HMMooreNiver

blueberry fest

muse

"The Muse of Poetry is a fickle and wayward lady."
--Michael Longley

green, blue, yellow

Lou's garlic

I was leaving my friend Lou's house on a warm rainy night when I mentioned that I should stop for garlic on the way home, envisioning some savory dish for supper.

"Oh!" she said, "We have some in the garden, want some?"

"Of course!" I said, as her husband Bryan started telling me about how mild & tasty it was, how he had it on his pizza the other night.

Meanwhile, Lou ran through the pouring summer rain and returned with the most fascinating garlic bulbs I have ever seen! I wish you could have seen them all glistening with rain, but I did snap a few shots before cooking up an ample bulb for supper...

It is as delicious as it is lovely!