This year the bushes in the backyard are heavy with red currant clusters. They are ready to harvest. I will snip the fruit clusters into a colander, then give it a moment for the spiders to withdraw. The simmered fruit, strained of stems and seeds, cooks into a tart rich red syrup.
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Hypnotic
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Delicate flowers and Dragon thorns.
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Who will teach me to write? A reader wanted to know.
The page, the page, that eternal blackness, the blackness of eternity which you cover slowly, affirming time’s scrawl as a right and your daring as necessity; the page, which you cover woodenly, ruining it, but asserting your freedom and power to act, acknowledging that you ruin everything you touch but touching it nevertheless[…]: that page will teach you to write.
—–Annie Dillard, “The Writing Life”
Plant devas at their finest, magic is afoot.
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Honey bee with full pockets.
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Fields of native delphinium in bloom. Beltane Eve tonight, pass through the fires into the summer’s new year.
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Along the river bank, between hail storms and sun breaks, waiting on a rainbow
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She leaves unadorned,
as she does every year,
without baggage, bare-boned,
rising into the rain and air,
to unfurl her fingers, uncoil her hair
Kim K. McCrea 