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

               

Gifts for the senses and the mind

by Pat Laster

Not 24 hours after I’d zipped off last week’s post, I discovered—on the path to the mail/paper box—what I’d missed seeing this winter: both blue and white Johnny-Jump-Ups, or bluets (whitets?). Also, the last-year’s Wave petunia that never froze showed two orange-y blossoms.
Returning with the papers, I looked around and noticed something white and low to the ground at the lower edge of the yard near the fence that houses the new neighbor’s two Dobermans. It was early morning. Perhaps they were still abed.
I walked through the dew and dry leaves to the spot. A dozen jonquils bloomed from bulbs that somehow had landed there. I plucked the flowers, every one. The fragrance was so strong, so wonderful that I walked toward the house with my nose buried in their perfume. I literally ran into a sprig of redbud blooming on a fractured and hanging limb. Nothing to do but stop and twist it off. And then another. Into a water-filled Fostoria vase they all went. Now, when I sit at the dining table to read or eat, they assail my senses of sight and smell, and I sigh. Contented, thankful.
As if that weren’t blessing enough, Monday morning, out to mail bills and retrieve the morning paper, I glanced to my left: the purple irises were in bud!
When it quit raining, I planted a flat of pink thrift along the border of the old driveway in openings of long-in-place concrete blocks.

Five Lady CAWs (Central Arkansas Writers)––as one has taken to calling us––meet monthly, each an hour away from a centrally-located county where none of us lives—in their library. The riders arrive sometimes bleary-eyed from the early-Saturday trip, but the drivers are alert--stoked on coffee—at the 9:00 opening hour.
Last Saturday, the parking lot was full for some reason. Entering the place, we discovered why: a book sale was in progress. We dodged our ways through the avid customers, who in this town with three college/universities, seemed eager, like diggers who go to Murfreesboro hoping to find diamonds, to , well, find diamonds in books. We had to wait until after our meeting to peruse the many titles.

Four of us are writing novels and the other has her first book at the printers. A stringent critique session—kind but stringent—ensued, where we aired our opinions about words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs that we considered emotionless, puzzling, or unnecessary.
After two hours of tedious but meticulous work, it was time for lunch. On our way out, we stopped by the book sale. One needed some beach reading for an upcoming trip to St. Thomas, New Orleans and Navarre. Two others of us, who claimed to be merely looking, went up and down the rows–– just in case we saw something we had seen reviewed or had read about and didn’t own.
I looked for authors and found a new Gina Wilkin’s title. Gina, a Jacksonville writer, has relatives in my community, and I have four other titles of hers. It somehow glued itself to my hand. Other authors I picked up were O. Henry, D. H. Lawrence, Hermann Hesse, Walker Percy and C. S. Forester. Two others I chose by the titles: Pollyanna and Pollyanna Grows Up by Eleanor Porter.

Why don't I find a reading space where I can place the vase of flowers close by and open one of the diamonds I bought?

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Check out my first novel, A Journey of Choice, available at major booksellers or by emailing me at plpalaster21@gmail.com. I will snail mail a copy if you wish. Hardback=$25 + $2 postage; Softback=$15+#2 postage.