Some times I feel like Raggedy Ann.
That my stuffing is falling out from a tear in my scalp,
And my thoughts are incoherant.
And difficult to grasp
Made of gossamer, on the wind.....
They float, reach for the sun and breeze, tiny seeds.
And I love and bless each and all of them,
Though I don't recall them specifically
Into the ether they flow, in whatever their incarnation,
To be racapured
.... At a later date, by myself or another.
As children, daughters, we would collect the seeds from the blue larkspur.
As an adult, I long for the time when the spikes were taller than me
And move on to lupins, for the challenge,
And another memory
of favourite children's book,
Miss Rumphius, and seed spread readily.
As the irises, flag and Dutch, leave behind their ghosts
And adore their tissue paper forms.
Dying things have their own special beauty
And the Alliums flower, heralding harvest,
Impressing me with their stages,
And I make pesto from their stalks,
The LilyPily flowers burst, and my hay-fever erupts,
But I can't escape their beauty,
Their optic fiber tutus,
Their new pink leaves.
And we, many hands, built a dragon
To breathe smoke through nostrils,
Warm us in Winter,
And bake out pizza and other garden goods.
She will be mosaic covered when complete.
But the colours, textures and vivacity of the simple are never far from mind.