April 18, 2012

Spring is settling in for a long stay it seems; today the rain is gone, and the morning is mild, dry cool air and an abundance of sunshine.  Everything gleaming with color, deep greens just beginning to show in the new leaves, flowers along the verge of the road, white scraps of evening primrose, bright orange indian paintbrush, deep blue-purple of the occasional late blooming bluebonnet.  The oleanders have begun their summer long bloom, so many different colors from starkest white to deepest lavendar purple, and about every shade of pink, coral, red, with the occasional purple.  Dawn's pink one is the deepest pink of any I have seen.  And my favorites are the ones that are cherry red, and the ones that border on burgundy.  They smell like licorice, which I don't find a pleasant smell, but will forgive them that for thier crisp bright flowers that last so long in the heat and their long cool green leaves that are such a nice contrast to the vividness of their flowers.

The poem this morning is kind of like looking out the window, or driving through this spring, seeing things for just a few moment, or even seeing things in your own backyard you have not noticed before.  There can be love that encompasses that feeling of expanding universes of beauty, that hugs all the loveliness in a day.

Aimless Love

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

 Billy Collins

It's odd, that he should mention soap, even falling in love with soap.  One of my little luxuries is the wonderful Zum soap that comes in so many delicious scents.  It makes a joy out of something as simple as washing your face.  I know just how he feels, and sometimes am reluctant to put it back in the dish, so I stand there turning it and making a thick, slick lather of it until I have to rinse it off, then I put the soap back, but the smell of it lingers on my skin, tea tree and tangerine this week.   It doesn't have to be a big thing to bring joy, the green and white leaves of my fitonia on my desk, the light at the moment, all dappled and flickering from the breeze in the leaves, all things I can fall in love with, all things that make me sigh with their quiet beauty!