the osprey
the eagle
wingbeat for wingbeat
a flawless choreography
swoop for swoop
wheel and dive
the fish
tumbles
free
from the grasp of the osprey
the eagle
like a rock
plummets
to rise again
triumphant
clutching its plunder
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Secrets of the Garden
Being in touch with the earth.
The literal sense will also take us to where we need to be figuratively. My fingernails currently bear signs of the moist, black soil in which they were immersed - and where they will return. I cannot imagine living high above the ground, within blocks of stacked, drywalled capsules, where I cannot stretch my toes and touch the grass from my stoop. However, the large attached deck that soars above the ground, is my refuge during the warm summer months and upon it I tend my garden, a riot of cascading colour, that thrives in clay pots and planters. From this vantage, I may cast my eye over the valley and accept the peace it offers up. The purpose of this garden, jutting out from the hillside as it is, is as practical as it is aesthetic, for the local ungulate population has a voracious appetite - petunias, begonias and pansies; apparent delicacies. The lawn, on the other hand, slopes from the gravelled road in front, in undulating rolls and rocky steps, back and downward to merge into pine and poplar forest, eventually sliding beneath the water's silky edge. The fire pit, noted as the social gathering area, has been relegated to a relatively flat portion of tended grass at the north end of the house - a cool, breezy spot, shaded by a large willow and protected by lilac bushes and towering fir trees. It affords a different perspective across the lake. The irises that flourish beneath the shadow of the trees at the edge of the property are left in peace by the deer - I like to think it is the result of an innate reverence for their beauty.
My garden. A labour of love, wherefore the rewards I reap are tenfold.
The literal sense will also take us to where we need to be figuratively. My fingernails currently bear signs of the moist, black soil in which they were immersed - and where they will return. I cannot imagine living high above the ground, within blocks of stacked, drywalled capsules, where I cannot stretch my toes and touch the grass from my stoop. However, the large attached deck that soars above the ground, is my refuge during the warm summer months and upon it I tend my garden, a riot of cascading colour, that thrives in clay pots and planters. From this vantage, I may cast my eye over the valley and accept the peace it offers up. The purpose of this garden, jutting out from the hillside as it is, is as practical as it is aesthetic, for the local ungulate population has a voracious appetite - petunias, begonias and pansies; apparent delicacies. The lawn, on the other hand, slopes from the gravelled road in front, in undulating rolls and rocky steps, back and downward to merge into pine and poplar forest, eventually sliding beneath the water's silky edge. The fire pit, noted as the social gathering area, has been relegated to a relatively flat portion of tended grass at the north end of the house - a cool, breezy spot, shaded by a large willow and protected by lilac bushes and towering fir trees. It affords a different perspective across the lake. The irises that flourish beneath the shadow of the trees at the edge of the property are left in peace by the deer - I like to think it is the result of an innate reverence for their beauty.
My garden. A labour of love, wherefore the rewards I reap are tenfold.
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