Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
the other end of the woods, too, but there is some confusion in the
background so I rarely photograph it.
2)forsythia in our yard
We've been having a slow spring, but yesterday with very hot, and
today is supposed to be, too, so things are taking a giant leap
Friday, April 24, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
hadn't opened yet, and were just in bed), The ones pictured here are bloodroots. (I was only carrying my tiny pocket camera because of the rain and darkness.
There are lots of hiking trails at Maybury State park, as well as picnic grounds, a farm and other amenities. The park is on what used to be the grounds of Maybury Sanatorium, where people in Detroit went for tuberculosis. They cut the tuberculosis rate in Detroit by more than half.
Here is a poem I wrote Saturday when I was all cranky because I was confined indoors on a beautiful spring day (I thought this was a good post for it, when I actually got out [in the rain] [no fawn though]):
Fawn lilies, pale in the shadows of trees, open their throats
and call the bees. Bees, drunk with sleep and winter,
stagger from the hive. The hive hums with its own morning.
Spring caresses the forest lightly. If you hurry, you will see nothing
but the dark still-sleeping trunks of trees. But stop. Place your ear
to the trunk and listen. Sap thrums in its veins, singing
to the buds who hum softly as they gather their new leaves
to unfurl. And in a spot of branch-filtered sun, the first
mourning cloak butterfly fans slow wings among the fallen leaves.
You might mistake it for one of them if you didn't pause and look.
But I cannot look. Confined indoors, I miss the birthday
of the forest: the doe, licking her newborn, pressing
with her nose to balance it as it wobbles toward
its first breakfast. Picture me longing, aching; see me imagining
instead of watching, as, stepping among the white lilies
that bear its name, in a moment never to be repeated,
the newborn fawn takes its fleeting first steps.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
It's national poetry month and I am trying to write a poem a day which I am posting here, if you are interested.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Financial Plaza, a huge affair. We walked up and down aisle after
aisle enjoying the art.
The first lady was from Bozeman, Montana, but I didn't get her
name--she was one of the first people I spoke to. At the end, we went
back to see her, hoping to purchase something and get her name, but
she'd packed up the things I was interested in.
The second guy is Carl R. Sams. He and his wife, Jean Stoick do
wonderful nature phtography and sell prints, books, movies and have
won a number of awards. We bought two books for the grandchidlren and
Carl signed them for us.
The third guy was the very first person I spoke to--his wife had made
that wonderful dancing lady, but she wasn't there at the time, and I
didn't get their names.
The final shot is of the landscaping around the fair--indoors. I took
it handheld with no tripod and the light was very low.
If anyone knows the names of the two people whose names I failed to
get, please let me know and I will post them.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
White Duck in a Green Pool
The Clinton River makes an acute turn, chews
up the banks and topples trees whose roots hang fibrous
and ungrounded into the green water. Mallards, quacking
and grunting, slide along the current like pucks
in an air hockey game, smooth on the wrinkled green surface,
interrupting the reflection of willows and phragmites
with their shiny blue and green heads. When the river cuts
back far enough, it will rejoin itself, abandoning
this U-shaped oxbow to stagnate like an old appendix.
Already, the trail caves into the river and disappears,
almost impassable between the plunge to water
and the thicket of brambles. Already,
old oxbows ring islands of trashy willows and weeds
where Canada geese nest, the males hissing,
trailing intruders, attacking with wing blows,
with the heavy thump of breastbone against neck and shoulder.
No one in this dismal place is jubilant, but the white ducks,
resting on the sandbar opposite the bend of the river preen
their spotless feathers with bright orange smiles.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
I went to Dodge Park and wrote this poem while walking along the trail there. It was a grey early spring day, spitting bits of rain, cool. The flooding of the Clinton River had left mud on everything.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
I have been posting poems and pictures here for national poetry month.
I am very behind on posting to Detroit Daily and even farther behind on commenting--may have to give up blogging--can't keep up. I have to spend the day at a location with no internet. Blogging time is severely curtailed at the moment.