a blue moon
blue-violet hydrangeas
the blue hour of day
indigo buntings and bright jays
the word “cerulean”
dewy summer blueberries
tiny robin eggs
glimmering saphires and aquamarines
delicate bluebells and forget-me-nots
antique blue and white china
translucent butterfly wings
worn denim
cobolt glass bottles
silver bracelets with turquois stones
blue velvet
a cloudless sky in july
last night, i dreamt of the dogs on my aunt’s farm many years ago, and all of my childhood delight and wonder flooded into my spirit in a tidal wave of yearning
For many days in a row, I found bloody feathers beneath a tree. I wondered if the culprit was a hawk, or an owl, or a cat. And then yesterday, as I was coming home from the little market down the street, I saw a small sparrow hawk with the flight precision of a fighter pilot, swoop under the tree. Immediately the tree emptied of other birds with shrill shrieks and frenetic chaos.
Walking over for a closer look, I watched him. It occurred to me that maybe I should be repulsed, or saddened or even frightened. But I was awe-struck. He looked down at me, straight into my eyes and I nodded, the tiniest little head nod, before turning away.
strawberry and mango popsicles
blue herons in the early morning and small hawks in the afternoon
this book: A Three Dog Life, by Abigail Thomas
cedar waxwings in the berry bushes
this song: Take Me in your Arms by the Doobie Brothers
the juice of swiss chard, cucumber, mint and apples
fairy lights in mason jars at night
i looked for you in the space right before sunrise,
in the deep end of a small rain puddle,
in the thick layer of leftover sugar at the bottom of a cup of tea,
in the changing cloud patterns on a monday in july
their lives ramble on–
chaotic rose vines once delicate and singing with fragrance, turned wild, leggy and silenced
repeatedly throughout those years she was asked,
“Who do you think you are?”
and after all this time, she still has no idea
the cherry blossoms weep, and i feel their sorrow
deep in the marrow of my restless soul
A wasp got into the house today. Flying to the top of the 15 foot living room ceiling, banging its large body against the big windows, causing a bruising, crunching sound with every violent slam.
At first, it was motivated and seemingly angry, wings buzzing in frenetic gestures of desperation.
Ten hours after its first appearance on my window, the wasp hung onto the sill quietly, exhausted and resigned.
When everything else is stripped down, what finally remains is the illusion of an open sky held at bay by invisible walls barring all flight.
i dream of the past and suffer all over again
Spanishwoods is 2 1/2 years old. In that time I have brought only positive light to these blog pages. But for the next week, it’s going to get a little darker. One week of meloncholia. One week of a negative purging of sorts. If you have no desire to read a stormier version of the woods, skip this week and I will see you again in mid July.
spanishwoods 