Gifts for the senses and the mind

                Pulling an empty wagon from the burn pile last week, I discovered what I’d missed seeing

this wishy-washy, warm-cold season between winter and spring: both blue and white Johnny-Jump-Ups, or bluets.

                Returning from the mailbox one day, I noticed the irises beginning their ascent through their as-yet-unraked leaf cover. Behind them in concrete blocks that delineate the yard’s edge, spots of pink among the greens caught my eye: thrift was responding to the warmth of the past few days. Soon, pink would overtake the green. 

The jonquils and buttercups are blooming profusely, and on several days when at the mailbox, I would pick a few blossoms, twist off some japonica/ quince nearby, then, when inside, position them Into a water-filled vase. Now, when I sit at the dining table to read or eat, the fragrance assails my senses of sight and smell, and I sigh. Contented, thankful.

When I have time, I’ll purchase and plant a flat of dianthus or pansies along the south border of the old driveway in openings of long-in-place concrete blocks. 

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I’d like to plant a wildflower garden in the former driveway section that’s closest to the road. This will be the third year I’ve worked toward this project. Trouble is, it’s full of moss, grasses and white-rock gravel.  Two years ago I planted  two rows of irises along the edges and around an oak stump. I’m thinking of digging up some of the daffodils that might be too thick in the north yard and replanting them in front of the irises. If I can dig out the gravel and replace it with soil. I think I can do that myself.

My second MFA online class, Poetry Workshop, has been so much more satisfying than the first class. Each week requires readings about the assigned poem, plus writing a poem. the next-to-last poem was a sonnet. In addition to reading and creating, we have to (workshop requires it) comment on each classmate’s poem. Though there are only seven in the class, the comments by some get to be a little much.

Last week (each Sunday at midnight is the deadline for getting work done), the assignment was a form of poetry so old that Psalm 118 is said to be written (in Hebrew) in that form, an abecedarian. Never heard of such! But I’d written acrostics, a similar pattern, so it wasn’t such a big deal. 

Happy remainder of March to you. 

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA