I am rather preoccupied with life laundry and workshop planning. I drafted a poem first thing, but the process has been interrupted by tasks away from the keyboard. So I am now proceeding to get the post out and poem re-drafted during my 4pm slump. (I was born this way. My mother could never get me to nap on Dr. Spock’s schedule . BTW he was the Boffin author of a 1950s Baby Bible and nothing to do with Star Trek schedule. I routinely flaked out 4pm and an elder sibling would be tasked with rousing me for supper at 6pm.)
So this post and poem will probably reflect a certain tiredness without benefit of nap time. Also, feeling a bit rushed. Which will also be the case tomorrow. What I need is an Ivory Tower and a self-cleaning house. Oops, that sounds a tad Mrs. Cranky. Better get on with it!
First, it is tree.
Upon further acquaintance
With the silver and gold glimmer on bark
Its rough and smooth
Shine and shadow
The cycling through bud, leaf, flower
Does it fruit?
Then we get properly introduced
And on a first name basis
Because Alder is not Ash
Despite having catkins
Hazel is not Willow
(Who sometimes goes by Sally)
The orange flare in Rowan’s red berry
Is not the red of a September haw.
Frost turns a blackthorn’s sloe
Shade of Midnight Quink
I could crush the Elder’s berries juice
And write my name with it
A name is not just an arboretum label
With its Latin alias, too
A name is a kind of destiny
The beginning to a
That goes far beyond tree
Copyright Bee Smith 2018