Is it May?
Have you gone crazy lately? Feeling the burning sun at dusk? Inside you? Did you forget? Knowing what they mean by it at last? Crushing? Doubled over? Why now? What happened? Go away! Oh no, not yet! Please wait a little while.
Posts
A Harbor of Bark
How does a tree grow? Wouldn't you think it grew from way inside? But for most trees the new wood grows on the outside, pressing against the protecting bark. The bark--cut, crusty, weathered, broken--shelters the new growth and at the proper time gives way to create a tiny crevice for a leaf. What stories this bark tells around the aging campfires.
Broadway Stars Disguised as Meer Singers
Christian Fletcher, Artistic Director “Broadway at Harlem Meer” may 16 @ Central Park
An American Sycamore
This is Half and Half, an American Sycamore and without a doubt a beauty of the species. On the bottom half we have a barky trunk, but up above we find a London Plane. See how it stands alone mid-field, lifting the air around the boughs? How many childhood mowers must have made a careful detour? Mowers large enough for fields of hay, yet taking care to go around a tiny stick with maybe seven leaves? Yes, I know. Perhaps it had a childhood fence, but a fence is so material. Do you know what I think? I think the field knew all along.
Early Summer Rainbow
I feel the ache of summer. The calendar would disagree, but I know the warning signs. A cool day with leaves four inches wide, green side up, stem-red, semi-glossy. Two sparrows in a chasey touch and go, three geese splashing in the Harlem Meer vying for that taste of early honey. Oh I see the saddened, bitten days. I know how to hesitate, and what's the use? But must we miss the smell of summer linden? Is that the price of closing well? Or are those squares and pieces gnawed and splintering regardless? Look! Over there! That carefree early summer rain is smoothing out the endgame.
A Satisfied Ounce
I left Ounce wet and tottering and wandered off to check out another bush across the way. When I came back by, there was damp little Ounce perching on the puddle rim with that happy secret look. What could I do? We waited a few more minutes until Ounce was dry enough to fly, and off we continued.