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.
A contrasting focus. The bloom will grow up to two-feet high, although now only over two inches
Delicate flowers and Dragon thorns.
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.
Honey bee with full pockets.
Fields of native delphinium in bloom. Beltane Eve tonight, pass through the fires into the summer’s new year.
Along the river bank, between hail storms and sun breaks, waiting on a rainbow
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