February 20, 2012

This is a between morning, between wind and stillness, between cloud and sun, between chill now and warmer later.  It may be making up its mind about what to do with the day, like a lot of us, a holiday at a strange time, making a short week of work, making me wake up this morning in a panic about being late before I remembered that there was not any school today!  Silly brain remembered Monday but not holiday, should try to remember both at the same time, would save on adrenalin.

I believe there is pollen happening, watery eyes, itchy face . . . the oaks are leafing out and there are all kinds of new grasses, and onions, and the new cane has grown a foot since yesterday.  That stuff is kind of scary for how quickly it grows and for its tenacity, but it's sure something interesting to watch out the window.  The big iron plant that had nearly died under cover of the cane is now expanding its territory, since the cane got cut back some last year.  Its dark green oval leaves are a deep contrast to the lighter cane.  It looks like a plant war skirmish <chuckle>

This morning's poem is for Mikayla as it has Amsterdam in it and is funny!  Since she has to go to work on the holiday, I thought she might need a smile, and it's a different way of looking at spring.  Each time Mikayla has gone to the Netherlands, she has missed the flower market.  Some day she is going to be there for it, for thousands of Dutch tulips and other flowers.

Why Things Burn

My fire-eating career came to an end
when I could no longer tell
when to spit and when

to swallow.
Last night in Amsterdam,
1,000 tulips burned to death.

I have an alibi. When I walked by
your garden, your hand
grenades were in bloom.

You caught me playing
loves me, loves me
not, metal pins between my teeth.

I forget the difference
between seduction
and arson,

ignition and cognition. I am a girl
with incendiary
vices and you have a filthy never

mind. If you say no, twice,
it’s a four-letter word.
You are so dirty, people have planted

flowers on you: heliotropes. sun-
flowers. You’ll take
anything. Loves me,

loves me not.
I want to bend you over
and whisper: “potting soil,” “fresh

cut.” When you made
the urgent fists of peonies
a proposition, I stole a pair of botanists’

hands. Green. Confident. All thumbs.
I look sharp in garden
shears and it rained spring

all night. 1,000 tulips
burned to death
in Amsterdam.

We didn’t hear the sirens.
All night, you held my alibis
so softly, like taboos

already broken.

Daphne Gottlieb

I never thought of botanists' hands as all thumbs, all green thumbs <smile> or that tulips in their lovely blaze of colors burn to death, but when you see pictures of fields of red and orange and yellow tulips, it's easy to imagine the fire.  The rich dark images of fertile ground and the fire of flowers makes for a stunning poem about the hazards and joys of spring, the little rituals, the tenderness, the explosive passion and alibis of love, all wrapped up in a warm embrace.  How often do you find a fresh raft of images about love and spring?  An occasion worth celebrating!

When I went to swap cars to let Mikayla out I heard all kinds of birds this morning, a noisy jungle of cheeps and whistles and song, even the sorrowful who-who-who of the mourning dove.  The air is soft and moist and leans gently against the skin.  The clouds look like they are winning at the moment, spreading a soft gray, thickening in places until you can see the water piling up, hesitating to make the descent.

Perhaps there will be a shower of rain, or tulips or peonies in your day, or a little ritual of love, or an alibi or two!