Pictures :-)

 I tried to insert these pictures into my last post, but I couldn't quite get them to fit right with the text, so I just decided to post them alone.

What the Rain Did (place entry 6)

This is what the rain has awakened:

The wind. You’ll have to trust me. I can’t take a picture, it being all about faith.

The robins. They dance around each other, fluttering here and there, fighting across my yard, bearing their red breasts. 

A garden snake. It lazily draped itself before my front door, not even looking at me when I tossed a rock at it. 

Ladybugs. They crawl patiently across my window screens, and I let them be. I count their domino dots because not a single one is like the last I saw. 

The big, velvety green leaves beneath the tree that divides my yard and the neighbor’s. It is exactly where we have never planted anything at all.

The forest. It is stippled minty green, as if an artist decided we need a little color here and there and just there beneath the thorns where everything has been dry and fragile.

My tulip poplar. Tiny leaves are translucent against the brave blue sky.

The maple trees. They have grown fuzzy, red and orange to tell me they are just about to burst.

The floral, ornamental trees. They flower all over, all dressed for afternoon tea. Some just on top so that they present an offering of adoration. 

Weeds. Some are tall enough in my yard to slap my plaid sneakers. Some are shy, violet, and I try very hard not to step on them. Some are little bells I imagine are tinkling in the sunlight.

Hydrangea. Veiny, deep green sprouts peak from their beds, finally pushing their way past thick, brown comforters. Above, dried parchment paper blossoms, remnants from last year, still wave stubbornly. When will they fall off?

Daylilies. Well, their leafy bases. They will trumpet come summer. I will wake to them every morning because you can’t ignore something so jubilant.

Thorns. They curl into themselves, but somehow manage to reach for me. I push them aside or skirt them. I brave them the way I did when I was a little girl. 

Something else that is not in my yard at all: Tiny, uncertain shoots of trees in the empty woods across from my house. Only, they are not empty woods anymore because the slope is a brilliant green, and tiny cup flowers climb surely up the bushes, and amidst all the open space, coltish limbs reach determinedly to the sky to make up for lost time. 

And one last thing the rain has awakened that is at home in the backyard, but decides to leave every once in awhile anyway: Me. I play balance beam on the logs and kick rusty metal cans away. I want to rush into the woods instead of lying beneath my tulip poplar. I run up the hill of my yard instead of trudge. I smile without thinking about it even once. 

Surprised by Joy (blog prompt 5)

Sit beneath its branches, the Celts believed, and you will find inspiration in the wind whispering through weeping willows. Poets write there, artists find inspiration, psychics dream many dreams. Sit beneath its branches, and you will be enveloped, hidden. Your heart, that part of you that creates, will be played like a harp to some unaccountable melody. Or so they say. 

Never having sat beneath one, I can’t quite be certain. I do know that weeping willows bend, but rarely break. I know that theirs are some of the first leaves to turn green in the spring. I see them often, now, tiny leaves collected on long branches, glowing almost lime green against an otherwise brown backdrop. They ripple, even when I can’t feel a breeze. They dance alone. Around here, I don’t see them by water too often. Yet, they are commonly found by lakes, their roots perfectly at home and content in the soggiest soil, their tops leaning, leaning further to touch fingertips to an almost-still mirror. 

And they weep, you know. Their branches curve sadly, dripping long, flat leaves forlornly. They are drooping heads, slumped shoulders, downcast eyes. They are too heavy to stand up straight, too wispy to fall over. They are sinking into wet earth to reach for life water offers so that somehow, someway, they can survive. They are me when we found out Dad was gone.  They are my back curved, my arms draping over my mother’s shoulder, my head aching, eyes dripping. 

Some flower, though, like the weeping cherry tree. Some blossom delicately and slouch like pouty little girls in pink, fluffy dresses. These are the weeping willows that really enchant me. They are whimsical, story-tellers. I smile at them because they always make me grin, and no matter how many times I see these weeping trees, I cannot look away. They are lovely, loving, lacy. They are so very hopeful, that I perk up. I lift my head, square my shoulders, take in a deep breath, and dry my eyes. They are spring, you see, in all its newness. They surprised me with their joy every single time. 

Thorns (place entry 5)

Memories feel like hunger, carving out a space beneath my rib cage, a place of longing. I feel it the moment I step out my glass sliding door into my backyard. The air is so gentle today, warm and beneficent. Immediately, I am an explorer, pushing through the forest, a child so small the whole world looks big. I remember running back here in the summer with neighbor friends. We’d clamber past rocks and over roots, paving a well-loved path through the thick thorns. Now, the woods in my backyard are overgrown. There are no more children, just me. 

            A garden snake coils before my feet, sleeping in the noon sun. Its black scales shine as if oily, and I decide to enter the thicket a different way. Above me, the Yellow Poplar I sat under after Dad died opens its seeds to the sky. They are woody, splayed, children’s fingers asking for more. I watched this tree give its last in autumn color. I watch its rebirth again and again and again. Maple trees flower nearby, their little red blossoms are pompoms that cheer on the spring. Fleetingly, I recall Dad pointing out these trees to me, crouching to pick up their seeds, shading his eyes against the sun, walking far ahead and fast while we struggled to keep up with his enthusiasm. Now, I explore for him, asking, “What more?” 

            My little forest fights me every step of the way, but I manage to keep bristles from my hair and skin as I walk deeper. The greenest plants are the thorns, ironically. They wind and twist, trapping and snagging. I want to get all the way back, though. There’s a field we used to play in when it snowed. Now that I stand before it, the branches are too thick to fight through. Suddenly, a snapshot comes to mind, unbidden, but warm. These thorns, weighed down with snow, curve like weeping willows so that we can climb through, our snow pants and coats catching all the pickers, not our skin. 

            But it’s only a memory, and I don’t expect I’ll be able to go back again. It is cut off from me, a past I don’t fit into anymore. Birds twitter in the bushes, and the sun is kind, but I’m stuck here, between the middle and the beginning. Little alcoves I loved when I was a little girl are too small for me now. I look, but find it hard to see because, even if I know where he is not, my heart won’t stop searching for him here. Thickets of thorns stand in my way. I am trapped.