Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Late July



Late July is a celebration of yellow- a myriad of tiny suns warm the earth -- black eyed susan, marigold, tickweed, hawkweed, sunflower, and coreopsis -- they beam from every garden corner, every field and roadside . . .

Late July is a surfeit of freshness, a ton of tomatoes, a cornucopia of cukes, a maze of maize, a battery of beans . . .


Late July is a pollen-blessed cat, basking in the sunflower's warmth . . .



Late July is a tired woman, a fading beauty
Worn out with all that bearing.
Her back bends; her hair trails down.
She holds the latest babe
And dreams of snow.
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7 comments:

Susan T. said...

The beauty and realities of today's post balance the awful part of the human nature and experience. That question..."when, oh when (Lord, Allah,Universe) will we have peace?" Well, Vicki, you find it daily in small and larger things, as well as the process of distillation into your book. WE can find it in our own lives, with the added blessing of your writing!

Susan M. Bell said...

I thought you said once that you weren't a poet. Sounds pretty poetic to me. :0)

Vicki Lane said...

Thanks, Susan T. I almost wrote about the murders at the UU church in Knoxville but just couldn't face all that sorrow and desperation two days in a row. Glad I went with the small things.

Susan B., I do feel pretty hesitant to post my poetic-ish attempts, particularly when I know that a Real poet may be reading them. But what the heck.

Speaking of real poets, Kay Byer has a beautiful poem up on her blog about Iraq, posted in response to my Fear post.

Tammy said...

Lovely post, lovely pictures. The poem is wonderful. My favorite picture is of the cat resting as only a cat can, under the bouquet.
Tammy

Anonymous said...

Don't sell yourself short as poet. I agree with Susan, that sounds most poetic to me. There are phrases throughout your books that are poetic in the density of meaning and descriptiveness of just a few words.

Many years ago I ran across a little poem, probably on a card or in a little book that started "It really is the little things that may seem very small." The older I get, the more it's true. Much of the sorrow in the tragedies we face, directly or even indirectly in today's world, is in the cessation of the opportunity to revel in the joys of the the "dailiness" of our lives.

Lynne in Ga.

Anonymous said...

Correcting a mind jump typo--the poem started "it really is the little things that mean the most of all; the 'let me help you with that' things that may seem very small."

Lynne in Ga.

Vicki Lane said...

Thank you, Lynne. And how true about "the let me help you with that" things -- they are indeed often the things we remember most.