Posts Tagged ‘spring


casting out demons

Went for a walk today,
first time outside in a long time,
casting out demons as I went.
No pigs to cast them into,
just a few robins, one really

Encountered someone the other day,
a sad, small person
with too much power and an inordinate willingness to use it;
a complete dearth of professional courtesy,
unapologetic disregard for anyone’s needs except her own
to exert that power.

She was the first to go.


Also cast to each side other
demons too numerous to mention here,
and anyway I know that they only lurked behind the
bare trees and followed me home again;

but I closed the door quickly,
turned the bolt in its lock,
and took a nice long hot shower

leaving them mewling on the porch.

Perhaps the postman will take them
when he leaves the day’s packages.

Cuz apparently we're assholes.

Cuz apparently we’re assholes.

Play Ball! Well, maybe in a month or two...

Play Ball!
Well, maybe in a month or two…


There is actually a bird in this picture -- a very small black and white speckled thing that is apparently "designed" to blend in with tree bark. Can you find it?

There is actually a bird in this picture — a very small black and white speckled thing that has clearly evolved to blend in with tree bark. Can you find it?

Waiting for Spring...

Waiting for Spring…

I know



From Jane Kenyon’s Waiting:

. . .And she will wait. Life is odd. . .

I too am waiting, though if you asked

what for, I wouldn’t know what to say.

What am I waiting for?
Besides the kettle to boil
so I can make myself a cup of that Wild
Sweet Orange tea we both like so much,
the UPS truck, Hannah’s bus,
for spring to come to the tangled trees
and vast fields of brown that look so much
like November.

I know I’m waiting for our trip to Italy
where we will feast on beautiful food and
ancient works of art painted on canvas and ceilings,
and drink as many perfect wines as we can
find, and afford; and where we will walk on sun-bleached
paths and look at water gleaming
like a smoothed out piece of tin foil,
or watch the beautiful people on their
passieggiata speaking in their beautiful tongue.

But what else?

For our children to grow and find their way,
and for a world that knows what I mean by
what I say and do rather than the errant
expressions that appear on my face;
for the perfect job, the perfect poem, the perfect
silver happiness one reads about in books?

Ah, there’s the whistle of the kettle.
That’s one thing, then.


Is it finally here?

Apparently, if I want some space in between my photos, I have to write something, or wordpress just bumps them all together.

I love how the sun peeks into the corner of this picture; I don’t love how it made that weird circle in the middle of it though.

I was striving in this one for the focus to be on a deeper branch, with the branches in the foreground and the rail in the back blurry.

I was hoping that the people who lived in the house that belonged to this tree didn’t mind that I was practically lying down in their yard to get this shot.

I won’t tell you how long I stood on the other side of this line of trees trying to figure out how to get a closeup without trespassing; I finally decided it was hopeless, took 7 steps, and then realized that there was a little alley-street on the other side of it. Duh.

I did lay on the sidewalk for this one. Nobody was looking (I checked).


It’s almost here. . .

Took a walk today to try out my new camera and attempt to record the world as it wrestles its way towards spring.

Not a lot blooming — some forsythia, daffodils – some shy, some a bit more extroverted, trees starting to show hints of pink or throwing off a faint green light.

The sky wasn’t cooperating, but I guess that’s just part of the “wrestling” process.


The First Walk of Spring

On the second 70-degree day in a row

I strapped on my favorite shoes and

put on my sunglasses and

went for a walk.

One of the pretty white shaggy dogs we saw last time

trailed along beside me on the other side of his picket fence

his partner-in-crime in the kennel behind

the garage, woofing, woofing.

I turned around where we usually turn right,

the route too long with only your absence

for company.

The wind caught up then, ruffling the river

and I closed my eyes, walking into it

in a sure straight line.

I met the same smiling, ponytailed girl on the way back

that I met on the way out,

still smiling, still ponytailed.

The spring flowers were peeking up out of dead leaves,

limply waiting for rain.

My tender, wintered feet started to blister,

the shoes not my favorites anymore.

Somebody’s wind chimes danced,

they sounded like old spoons.

I climbed the hill with today’s mail

in my hand, greeted the waving forsythia,

(me! me! pay attention to me!) and poured

myself a cool glass of water,

and waited

for you to come home.



I remember hating Sundays when I was a child. I think it was a combination of being bored out of my skull and dreading having to go back to school the next day. It really doesn’t make any sense if you think about it: I have absolutely nothing to do, but dread tomorrow, when I will have not only places to go and things to do, but people to see as well.

I don’t dread Sundays now; just the end of them. This was a very nice Sunday.

Started with me getting up to go play for my church job, but I’ll just skip over that part, although there was a really good chocolate chip cookie involved; talking about that would just make me sound like a child. This does actually remind me of something, though: the pastor, during the children’s sermon, was pointing out that different types of trees bear different types of fruit, and that our lives could reflect this in kind. He then asked of the children the infamous Barbra Wa-Wa question: “If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?” An adorable, blond, curly-haired imp chirped “A candy tree!” We all laughed. I thought “a money tree” but instantly felt shame and remorse for being so shallow, and looked around wondering if anybody knew.

I then met my husband at the grocery store for our weekly shopping. Bought good food and wine, congratulated ourselves on good deals found, laughed about the fact that I stood stymied in front of the bananas for way too many minutes trying to find the perfect number of green and almost green and no longer green bunches to get us through the week without contributing too greatly to the frozen-bananas-for-smoothies supply in our freezer. (I’m also opposed to breaking a few off of a bunch, even though I know this is standard practice. I feel badly for those lone bananas, left forlorn on the bottom shelf, and sometimes wonder if I should give them a home like Charlie Brown and his tree.) My favorite moment was in the snack aisle, where I noticed our favorite brand of potato chip was on sale. I gawked and said regretfully that I shouldn’t buy them, but also pointed out to my husband that his favorite style (vinegar and sea salt) were also on sale, at which point a woman with dark curly hair and a scarf said “You know you want, to” and proceeded to dance two bags over into our cart. I then pointed out that they had a 40%-less-fat variety, and proceeded to read (alas, aloud) the back of the bag which painstakingly explained that these were not, as one might expect, an example of one the poor-relation cousins of the potato chip, a dehydrated-potato product “potato crisp,” and neither did they contain a not-to-be-found-in-nature fat substitute, but included only potatoes, canola oil, and salt. In the midst of this reading, the woman leaned over to my husband and asked, “Is she always like this?” I invited her to lunch, but she thought I was kidding, and off we went our separate ways.

We came home, put all of the food away into what had been a very empty refrigerator, ate leftover spinach-and-goat-cheese hamburgers and potato chips (yes, I we bought them), finished up yesterday’s unfinished the laundry and went for a walk. It was in the 50s today, the snow was practically falling over itself in its hurry to melt, the sun gleamed over our shoulders. There were two pairs of teenage boys on opposite sides of the road trying to throw snow slush balls at each other. We wondered, briefly, if the battle was in fun or in earnest, but before we got near the two on our side of the road got onto their bikes, crossed over, and joined the other two, and they all slouched off together.

Further along a small boy, his dad, and the boy’s little red wagon were parked along the path. The boy was casting, with all of his might, the small stones his dad handed to him over the split-rail fence and into the grass on the other side. As we neared, one cleared the verge and plopped into the river. The boy clutched the fence and jumped with both feet shouting “yay, yay”; and then turned to us and beamed with pride and joy.

My husband and I walked, holding hands; we must have looked happy because everyone we met smiled or waved or said hello. Or maybe they were happy. He mocked me once and I tried to push him into the “snowbank,” but he’s a hockey player, and trying to push a hockey player over is like trying to move an old rusty truck with its parking brake on. Thankfully he didn’t try to push me back. I’m a pianist, and think that taking off my shoes qualifies as exercise. You could probably push me over just by thinking about it.

When we got home g went to exercise (the walk was my “workout” and his “warmup.” See?) and I made gumbo.

[Has anyone ever met a stranger vegetable than okra? The first time I cooked with it, I had harvested it out of my garden — I liked to plant one unusual thing every year, and that year, for some reason, I had taken it into my head that okra would be an interesting crop. Anyway, its gluey transformation in the pan convinced me that it was “off,” that I had left it to grow for too long, or something, and dumped the whole dish unceremoniously into the trash.]

So we had gumbo and rice and a good white wine for dinner, and went to pick up my daughter while listening to our favorite Beatles tunes. I like Eleanor Rigby. G likes When I’m 64 but that’s just because he thinks he’s getting old and claims that it’s “just around the corner.” (Sure it is, if the corner is 13 years long.) We both laughed at the line “You’ll be older too.” As if she, I, needed reminding.

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