In Which the Poet Espies a Yellow House

Sing what no neighbor dares confess Amid the squalid safety of the new (Constructed character of mismatched cubes, Rectilinear gardens, monochrome)— This cottage clothed in cheerful dereliction, The color of a child’s shining sun, With window-box and dooryard in a mania Of zinnia, petunia, gazania— Accidentally annexed, arrises askew, Gilded, bowered, vine-rife, breeze-cleaned, bird-rung. Why scorn what abundant life includes, Careless or a contrary ambition? Whatever saints and sinners call this home,

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Photoblogging challenge 5/1. Switch

A woodpecker flew up to an old 2x4 I leaned against the side of the workshop. Discovered it was not after all a tree, or rather too dead a tree to be useful — or not dead enough yet? Disappointed but not apparently dismayed, he left to try the neighbors’ Japanese maple.

I made a solar clock that marks 12 hours from sunrise to sunset at any latitude and longitude, after the mode of medieval monastic life. Consider it my protest against the idea of permanent daylight savings time.

Finished reading: Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens. Actually finished listening: Dickens in the hands (mouth?) of a good voice actor (in this case, Anton Lesser) is a marvel, and what audiobooks were made for. 📚

The Sexton: A poem after a painting by William Merritt Chase, written some years ago on a bench in the North Carolina Museum of Art.

Decided to try a warming mat for my seeds this year. Clearly it works. This is three days in. Which is good, because if one spends money on a technological aid to what is supposed to be a simple, down to earth activity, one at least wants results for one’s hypocrisy!

Starting seeds.

”‘Twas a grey day in February, and evening fell like a dead canary…” Thus begins this year’s winning entry in the annual Upper Dongle Creek Literary Society Bad Poetry Contest