Saturday, April 5, 2014

Just a Poem .

I’m back home from a great vacation in New Orleans, an entire week of good food, good laughs and fun tennis with my three girls,  It was a delight, but I am still in shock to find winter is still with us in New England.  Nothing in bloom, not even Coltsfoot, which usually sits on the roadsides shaking its shaggy yellow head by the first of March.  I was actually planning to write about it, but I seem to be suffering from Writer’s Block.  My solution is to  offer you the first song I composed when I began my career as a garden club speaker.    Hopefully I’ll get out of this rut soon,.

                                                    Passing a shady glen one day
                                                    I overheard a  violet say
                                                    “Listen girls, some botanist
                                                    Has made a Conservation List”

                                                    The gossip  flew like windblown seed
                                                    From bud to blossom, weed to weed.
                                                    Each flower felt to lack a place
                                                    Upon the list would mean Disgrace!

                                                   “Am I included?” asked Gentian fair,
                                                   “I’m delicate and very rare.
                                                   ”She blooms so late she shouldn’t be,”
                                                   The Adder’s Tongue hissed nastily.

                                                  “I need protection,” wailed  Wild Lupine.
                                                  “No more than me!” snapped Columbine.
                                                  The Bluets giggled at the fuss,
                                                  Then chorused sweetly “What about us?”

                                                  The beebalm gave a raucous laugh
                                                  And shook her shaggy head.
                                                  But then in deep embarrassment
                                                  She blushed a rosy red. 

                                               The delicate Hepatica
                                               Who rarely spoke a word
                                               Inquired, “Am I on the list?”
                                               But not one word was heard

                                             The Bloodroot, trembling and afraid,
                                             Her petals falling in the shade,
                                             Was sure the awesome botanist
                                             Had not put her upon his list.

                                            But Dutchman’s Britches who was near
                                           Quickly whispered in her ear,
                                           “I think your name was at the top.”
                                           And smiled to see the teardrops stop.


  1. Perfect foil for the current weather.

  2. The hideous winter with its frigid gloom and howling winds is surely behind us.... the not-yet-unfurled hellebore blossoms are here, buried under matted leaves, mushy stems, some lingering snow in the shadier places...A day crawling around to uncover them is worth the frozen fingers and cold stiff joints. Nothing some tylenol, a hot shower, and white wine can't cure. Take heart. Put out some fruit and seed for the Blue Birds. They're out of the woods and hungry.