The Ragtag daily prompt yesterday was A FLOWER CRIED. I had something in mind and tweaked a poem I wrote some years back, but have been slow getting it posted. And here’s a Pixabay image I found to go with it.
A flower cries.
My lovely little blossoms
have sore throats,
a swelling, I suppose,
of too much nectar.
How co-operative you are,
pretty flower, so patient with that
bumbling Doctor Buzz
in his yellow-striped coat
as he pries open your silky jaws
and pushes his portly self
How willingly you put up with
hairy feet tickling,
his fat nose in your tonsils.
He mumbles to himself
as he pokes among
your tender stamens.
How funny that buzzing must feel
deep in your golden throat!
At last he discovers the problem
he wants to cure:
an abscess of sweetness;
to his delight
he manages to remove it all.
Then off he flies,
always in a rush to the next
not even washing his feet.
On these cool-ish mornings I watch from my doorway as the hummers come to the two feeders I’ve set up. There appear to be about four juvies, though who can count such fast-moving flight artists.
I don’t know why they make hummingbird feeders with more than three holes. Perhaps in the land where they were designed, hummers know how to peacefully co-exist, but in our yard they behave much like humans. One feeder, one bird. If any other shows up, he or she is immediately urged to leave. Sometimes a few siblings can drink at the same feeder for a time, but mainly it seems to be, “This is mine. You beat it!”
Last summer I decided to hang a second feeder about a metre over and a metre lower than the main one. Occasionally I will see a bird at each, but more often the bird at the upper feeder will drive away the one wanting to light on the lower feeder. Sigh…
one hummingbird two feeders eight options zero tolerance
A few times this morning an oriole has come to the feeder to get his breakfast, so the syrup has gone down fast. I’m serving up a richer brew these days: 1 part sugar; 3 parts water. I’ve read they need more calories during migration — and that time will be coming soon. Though they be feisty little things, I hate to see them go.
I have a number of tubs of flowers on the step underneath the feeders, and planted two of them with red nicotiana this spring, thinking they’d appeal to hummers. As I observe, the hummers pretty much ignore the nicotiana blooms and seem to love my salvia and reddish-orange lantana blossoms. Duly noted for next spring. 🙂
in the fire pit
a gnarled old log
like a shaggy buffalo
its whitening bones
carried by the breeze
ashes of a warrior tree
drifting into the garden
returning to the earth
to rise next spring
My contribution today to National Poetry Month, or NaPoWiMo.
Happy the family that can work together to make their home more attractive!
When it’s clean-up week in springtime
and the winter’s past and gone;
when the balmy air of evening
signals summer’s coming on;
it is then I love to wander
when my day’s work is complete
through our friendly little village
greeting those I chance to meet.
There are things that strike my fancy
as I move along the way.
The impressions gained in childhood
are still holding good today;
for I love to see the parents
with the children large and small
clearing rubbish that has gathered
’round their home since previous fall.
I love to watch the children
and to hear them run and shout,
gathering sticks and bits of paper
that the wind has blown about.
And the father, too, is busy;
I can here him sing and chant
as he’s spading up the garden
for the seed they’re going to plant.
But there’s one thing holds attraction,
I don’t need to tell you what:
it’s the smudge that’s gently burning
in the corner of the lot
as the children pile fresh armfuls
of the rubbish which they bring.
It makes their home more cheery
after clean-up time in spring.
Written by a fellow Saskatchewan poet, Roy Lobb, born around 1893
Taken from his book PLAIN FOLKS, the second edition of which was published 1961 by Modern Press, Saskatoon, SK.
on my table a riot of blooms
seed catalogues scattered