Porthole

Groundhogs? Here we have prairie dogs.

"Blogging Circle of Friends "  Day 2999: February 2, 2021

Prompt: Use these words in today's entry: groundhog, spring, shadow, hope, snow, flowers, lavender.

The groundhog ate the lavender as deep blue shadows within the drifted snow dashed all hope for flowers before spring.

The prairie dogs here have a town along the irrigation canal that runs past the green grass of the high-school practice football field and track. They are sleeping in February but may come out on a mild sunny day. Not today. Dark clouds and big drops of rain chased us all inside.

We also grow lavender, which is quite edible for humans, but better stripped before the first hard frost. We also usually have deep snow in the mountains but not so much this dry winter. We need bitter cold for the ponderosa pine and snow melt to keep the streams running cold for the trout.

There were no signs of spring along the river path yesterday. The sun strengthens day by lengthening day but winter isn't ready to give up its grip.



"Surreal Flash #poem"   [E] by Ilaya

Mini-critique: I love "a seagull's flight over the cities' web of wires". There's some nice rhyme and rhythm. But because English is not your first language grammar becomes an issue. A tool like Grammarly would help in short stories and essays but poetic language breaks some rules and may make what you are saying dull and not poetic at all. Still, 'trembled' should be 'trembling' and 'a change in light' (which may have many meanings) may be better expressed as 'for the light to change' (which is literal) unless you prefer the ambiguity/metaphor of what you wrote. The first verse is very strong; the second verse not as strong. You have a mature voice; wish I knew Romanian. Will be looking forward to reading more of what you write. My rating: 4.4 as it does need an edit and it's not quite as strong as it can be.

Companion piece: "The beggar's eyes" 

Prompt: Write about surreal.

I'm lying in bed in Montana. I should be traveling.

Is this a dream? I should be shoveling snow, glad I don't have to work because I'm finally retired. On my drive to the store I should lightly tap the brakes so I don't slide. The dirty slush will stain the cuffs of my pants. I'll rejoice when the sun peeks out for a few minutes. I'll stop for coffee at a friend's house. My garden is sleeping. Friends call to make sure the poetry session tonight isn't cancelled. A cat meows as I drink my coffee and look out the window over the valley.

And then I'm back in Montana. The plants are quiet and I wonder whether it's worth the effort to get up and make myself coffee. There are no plans today... or any day.

asymmetrical mentions about soring years in boxes in her blog. I answered:

Wonderful entry.

I don't open certain boxes. They have unpleasant surprises, like a jack-in-the-box that startles and leaves my nerves ajangle.

1972 joy blooming after despair.
1974 mistakes best not revisited.
1986 numb. Maybe that elephant [you mentioned] sat on it.
1988 empty. A concussion robbed me of the year.
1999 death and a key unlocking me.
2003 '72 and '74 and '86 chasing me.

2020 lost.

3,655