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 |  Look around. Let Nature nurture your Soul. I record images I sense and share them here. |
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NURTURE your NATURE  Nature can nurture our writing, can nurture our soul. What is the language of Nature? And how do we learn it? We look at the natural wonders around us and do not see them, hear, taste nor smell them. They do not touch us anymore than we dare touch them. And then we wonder why we feel so dead. To breathe in and live like a child again opens the Land of Wonderment. It's still there after all these years.   |
| White on Lolo, on the Bitterroots to the south, the Missions to the north. The river runs higher. Blue skies clear after a rain. The pain of thirst has passed. On Sentinel, where the burn has traded beige with black, removed the plaque: green, green, bright new green. 2008-September-02, Missoula, Montana We got rain in the valley, snow on Mount Lolo. Chilly temps for two days, now sunny and mild. 54 |
| Look up: blocks of rock, lichen splotched, orange and chartreuse. Chirp of a bird one can't see, don't recognize. A bevy of trim bodies running west. Brown wings flitting along the edge of the river. Rest: a trickle cascades through crevices crossing the old railroad bed. White berries and red twigs of the dogwood spread on one side, pussy willow on the other. A side path diverges, descends into a canopy mottled with green twigs and brighter moss. Look below: the bark trail, the bare stones, paths of pine needles and cones. There is life here at dawn and at dusk. By day, it hides from the sun and us. Look up at the scree. Know that what is thrust up to the sky must forever tumble down to the sea. Kim Williams nature trail begins at the NE corner of U. Montana and follows the old Milwaukee Road east at the base of mt. Sentinel in Missoula, Montana. Written August 26/27 2008. 46 |
| The purple fringe of late summer flowers: knapweed, I find out later. It's soft with grey-green leaves. The straw from last Spring's growth; everything turns this boring beige; more beige than the living room I detested as a child. The one I washed down so we could paint it ... only painted till many years later. Orange berries along the millrace, the water slowing until it froths over the spillway. Men filming from a frame tower; maroon jerseys tossing footballs. They get the good view. We who pass by gladly ignored. Brown spent heads of tansy ... fragrant crush of rough leaves. There is little blooming here in the city, along the river, anywhere to be seen. The riot of Spring color has faded to the fragrance of these tansies and what sage and lavender remains. A greeting by a golden retriever. One should always stop to pet the wildlife that's wet and willing! Along the path, southside of Clark Fork River (Madison to Van Buren) 26-27 August 2008, Missoula, Montana. |
| Another day bleeds across the blue, leaving only ivory streaks that will turn pink in an hour or so. The heat rises to greet the sky, rejected, flames back to burn us, then dissipates in the shade of a golden rain tree. Here in the cafe: an aroma of coffee, the chatter of customers, a cool 'tropical breeze'. We hide from the sun. The Goldenrain tree;    Edited from my Journal, page 1695, 25 June, 2008. Lawrence, Kansas. |
| At Dunn's Coffee: 1 The patio The black mesh table branding the flesh of my arms. Red geraniums in a pot. Pig-squeal of truck brakes (a sign: England). Groan of the bus. Soft chatter, one woman with bare feet up on a chair. Breezes dancing through the frill of the locust. Bird chirps louder than the music from the speakers. A duet in flight. The drama of small birds hopping. An orange shirt walking east. The lengthening of shadows before sunset. 2 My muse visits It's 7:37 and the bus went by again; how times flies by at six feet above the pavement. The fleetness of my youth left me long ago, never came back to fetch the boy who wandered off and got lost. No search plane has sighted him since (soon it will be too late, sighs Death). And at 7:47, the last flight leaves. 3 Back in this world If I consider the moment, I have every reason to be happy. It's low 80s and very pleasant, my body isn't aching, my heart isn't breaking and I'm enjoying a peaceful moment. Edited from my Journal, pages 1693-4, 23 June, 2008. Lawrence, Kansas. |
| 1 Vines The pad, pad, pad of joggers going past. The birds; a soft twitter. The turtles have moved elsewhere, a flash of red, a cardinal. Grape vines and other vines, the five fingered leaves of Virginia creeper vines 30 feet up in an ash tree. Wisps of clouds moving east. 2 Mulberries Earlier, I observed the waxy nodding petals of the yucca. Ate some mulberries, both black and white. The white ones look like maggots (squish like them too) until they turn lavender and wonderfully ripe. They're not as flavorful as the black ones (red when ripening) nor do they stain as bad. I had to be careful as the limber limbs were bent down by the vines. Grapes are not a problem, but poison ivy is. 3 Mosquitoes The sky is beautiful @ 8:30, but the mosquitoes are searching for blood ... time to move on. Edited from my Journal, page 1692, 22 June 2008. Lawrence, Kansas. |
| Blackbird, starlings up in an elm, a flutter of wing from the fence, in the evening shade of the plaza behind the stores, the wasteland looms end to end. There are no smells in the dry heat, only stretches of pavement, a cushion of moss, green by the downspout. It holds to trickles of life-giving water, clings to its crack. Red fruiting stalks show above its velvet. The whine of a/c drones like a bag-pipe to the bird-melody. Black lines of tar stripe the way, a losing attempt to seal cracks. The orange-gold of a speed bump provides visual relief. In the wasteland, one notices the details, or notices nothing at all ... 4 cars dot the lot. Saturday evening looms quiet in the suburbs. The waning sunshine greets one at the end of the plaza: The cleaners. The brake of a city bus. In the heat of the evening, there is no scent of place, only dust. [Plaza on Iowa between 25th & 26th, Lawrence, Kansas, 2008-06-21] |
| Two men jog north past our umbrellas, shorts hugging hips, chests sweating. "They make a cute couple." She says this under the umbrella, confident in her green top, avoiding the sprinkles of a threatening day. Ashtrays and cigarette butts are our companions. I sip from my coffee cup and try not to devour the lemon bundt cake. She chatters with a guy, nondescript and fully clothed, not glistening like raindrops, his hair like ... honey. An artist sits down with me, waiting for her order. We converse about Frida Kahlo and her self absorbtion. She sketches self-portraits too. All of 22, with her mousy hair and drawing pad tucked away from the rain. I talk to her about Sharon, who wrote a 45 minute monologue about Frida. how I witnessed her give a talk about Frida, pick up a clove cigarette and with one puff become her ... I tell her I write poetry to art, show her a miniature of one of Georgia O'Keeffe's paintings. Ask her if she can see anything; she doesn't at first. But when I tell her I see a mask, she sees it too. We see what we see it seems. The two men return jogging south ... and yes, I notice. The pumping legs and firm thighs are off to somewhere without me, oblivious of my presence. On the bus ride home everything glistens after a rain. Mimosa folds its leaflets together as if in prayer. 17 |
| 2 hours after solstice Standing on the brink of the creek it is the vertigo that nauseates; common sense that will not let me let go. The water trickles down below, sad vestige of the flash flood. Naismith Valley's merely a ditch. A deadly ditch 10 feet down when calm, raging with each rainfall. They've mowed the grass up to the edge, leaving only a fringe of Queen Anne's Lace and yellow clover, the cheerful frill of yellow along long stems, white saucers of tiny florets clinging to the spokes of floral umbrellas. Faint scent, but it is movement in the water that catches my eye as 2 long necked turtles paddle slowly in the shallows. They are 15 inch ovals, odd sight to see in ditch. So large beneath the grape vines, dangling ropes traipsing through the ash and shrubs as fireflies twinkle in and out, yellow-green stars that move through gloaming. It is two hours after the solstice and I'm helping a worm cross the walkway, wiggling as I scoot it over with the notepad's edge. The robin on a fence flies off. Have I denied him a late evening dinner? A white spot hops into the bushes at the edge of sight, only the white is perceived. In olden days, when two threads, one white, one black, appeared as one, it was officially night, but the rabbit wouldn't know this. I collect the scent of honeysuckle to place in my pocket, the ivory flowers, the spent yellowed petals, and try to avoid the dog poop on the path. It is ten feet wide, a ribbon of light concrete, bisecting the deepening dark that opens up to a glade. The vernal pond is still with water; there is no drought today; yet all is quiet, no peeping frogs. Even the bird twitter has hushed along the squishy path where I avoid the ticks and mosquitoes of a not-so-distant memory. None today. I walk to the end of 26th Street and up the macadam road to home. The indented portions are extrapolations of the original list of notes. This was the path I took tonight. Next time you go for a walk ... observe, write, edit and then share. |
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