summer’s daydreams, poetry
written on feathers.
This is not in the same league as Nessie or Bigfoot, but as I was attempting to photograph a lady bug on Queen’s Anne lace yesterday, a honey bee arrived to steal the show. A bit of online research reveals that bees seldom visit a plant that is—according to the US Department of Agriculture—a noxious weed.
True love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen. — Francois de la Rochefoucauld
The humming and buzzing of pollinators has fled from our garden, leaving the dry rustling notes of August behind. Bee balm was the last flower for the butterflies and bumble bees and hummingbirds, and now it’s letting its hair down, another cycle complete, the chaos of its form still inviting. From everyone who visited it, including this photographer, our kindest regards.
Silent gratitude isn’t very much to anyone. —Gertrude Stein
Music is the silence between the notes. —Claude Debussy
Old Sheet Music texture © Brenda Clarke 2016
Against a dark sky, all flowers look like fireworks. —G. K. Chesterton
Hornets build a nest every year in one of our oak trees. Before October, you’ll see the insects, but not the papery-gray globe they return to in the evenings. I sometimes stand in the yard, certain that this time, looking up into the green bursts of leaves, I’ll pick it out. And never do.
My wife found the remains of an unfinished one in the yard today; it reminds me of bark, or a weather pattern viewed from space. Sand patterns on a beach. The whorls of a fingerprint, no two alike.