Tag: flowers

A Rosebush is a Weed

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

A rosebush is a weed
If it grows where there is no need
for roses.

I once saw a British garden show
where the host named plants that need to go
and mentioned rhododendron.

As if the mother of the flowers
born in Appalachian showers
was innately troublesome.

I rid my plot of chamomile
because I don’t grow chamomile,
though I drink it as a tea.

I buy it at the grocery store,
a blend of chamomile and more,
but pull it like a weed.

There’s little to no evidence
advocating the existence
of dandelion in a yard.

But some find it copacetic,
Claim the leaves are diuretic
And toss them with some chard

I pulled a knee-high mimosa
from amidst my prize azaleas,
stars of my floral show.

It would have been a fine tree,
but killed the vibe most certainly,
and so it had to go.

Where there is no need for roses,
Even roses are a weed.
Don’t just bloom where you are planted.
Plant yourself where there’s a need.

The Marigolds

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
Brick wall whitewashed to look 
new old. Worn floors refinished, 
wood polished, shining. Mats 
a safe six feet apart in this, our 
first class in the yoga studio 
since being forced into solitary 
practice seven weeks ago. 
Faint acoustic music from the 
Bluetooth. Benign renditions of a 
change to come and my sweet
lord. Diffused patchouli mist 
tussles with the alcohol in 
homemade hand sanitizer. 
The instructor tells us when 
to breathe.

I was in India when the pandemic
took over the world.  One day
Holi, slapping powdered color on
friends and strangers alike, rubbing
it into their hair, more intimate in the
playfulness than we would be
otherwise. Bollywood bass lines 
thumping the speakers. Colors running
in rivers of sweat. The next day, 
weighing options. Can we get back 
into the States? I don’t want to
leave a thousand kindnesses. The 
drumming of the Shiva temple in the 
morning.  An entire nation of 
incense and marigolds.  Breathing, 
rhythmic, human yoga.  

Inhale, she says, arms above 
your head. Exhale, fall into forward 
bend, and we comply, an army 
of six following field commands in 
unison.  The tips of my fingers 
feel the hardness of the thin-matted 
floor.  In the position’s hold I 
think of the flower market in Jaipur, 
mounds of marigolds, like walking 
through the clouds of a Hindu heaven, 
fighting the urge to jump into one, 
the petals cushioning 
the fall.

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved

Blackberry Winter

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

It’s that time of year                                                                                                                      when the world is half awake.                                                                                              Upright, sure.  Eyes open, mostly.

Daffodils are history.                                                                                                                      Redbud color has come and gone.                                                                                    Dogwoods still razzle-dazzle.                                                                                                          The elm looks almost full.                                                                                                              The maple has already                                                                                                                    put in a full day’s work. 

But the mimosa out front                                                                                                                has yet to crack open an eye.                                                                                                          The walnut looks as tucked in                                                                                                          as the middle of winter.

Gaia hits snooze                                                                                                                                and back we go to                                                                                                                               locust winter                                                                                                                                     dogwood winter                                                                                                                       blackberry winter.

She doesn’t rush things.                                                                                                                  She lets this one get the worm                                                                                                         and that one sleep in.

Everything in due time.                                                                                                              Everything in its season.

© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved

Springing

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

First the daffodils.

Then the tulips.  Red, yellow, pink. 

Lettuce is crisping in the cool morning air.

The cucumber magnolia sends out tiny shoots at the end of each branch.

The sycamores will make a late grand entrance, but until then there are the oaks, hackberries, and redbuds getting back to business. 

The cedar and cyprus have held a green vigil through the dark death of winter, but now they catch the fever and dance a little perkier in the breeze. 

The pine will start new quills to write the lovesongs of robins and chickadees, bluejays and cardinals.

Lavender, oregano, and mint are suddenly alive again.  

Rosemary dresses up and puts on her perfume. 

Hyacinths are bursting blue.  

 

The wheel will turn and spring will

become summer

become fall

become winter.

          But today is spring,

And I am bursting blue.