#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Flowering Milkweed
June mornings, now, the milkweed blooms, little pink stars framed in the broad green leaf and stalk. I went out early so I could meet the man coming to help me weed the gardens. A faint mist rising from the river into warming summer weather.
Outdoors most of the day, I manage an hour or two focusing on submitting poems to journals, five packets or so of varying bunches of the thirteen unpublished poems. So, no new writing today, but this effort feels very satisfying, combined with all the weeds, SO MANY COUNTLESS WEEDS pulled and composted in massive bunches. Such a productive Saturday.
And now, treating myself to sharing this exquisite stanza from Bradford Tice's fine poem, "Milkweed," which attracts me tonight especially since one of my newer poems is a love poem to my husband, and it speaks of this kind of excitement:
“I tell myself softly, this is how love begins—
the air alive with something inconceivable,
seeds of every imaginable possibility
floating across the wet grasses, under
the thin arms of ferns. It drifts like snow
or old ash, settling on the dust of the roadways
as you and I descend into thickets, flanked
by the fragrance of honeysuckle and white
primrose.”
Charles River Morning