Beautiful enough to be stained glass. Or the kind of coins they used in Oz or Atlantis.

Don't know what these are but all I can say is I wish my hair looked like this! Whatever they are, they're tiny,
only about the size of the fingernail on your pinkie.

Their heads are beginning to grow heavy. They stop watching the sun and lean toward the earth. So full of riches. Bees and song birds have been feasting. But every sunflower leaves the ghost of itself behind and so they cannot fail to reappear next year.

Except for some hardy tomatoes, everything edible from the garden vanished weeks ago, either eaten by slugs and/or woodchucks or drowned in the monsoons of June. But today, in the back of the garden, I discovered one tiny eggplant! Worth its sweet little weight in gold. Below -- a picture of its actual size.

A success story, no matter the size.

With the help of a zinnia,a sunset begins to practice its usual beautiful revelations.

Stella, the mourning dove's new friend. Stella is a domestic dove. People often release these doves at weddings or funerals but unfortunately they don't know how to fend for themselves in the wild. She was found starving to death and brought to the Center for Wildlife. If you want to release something at a wedding (or funeral) white pigeons
are the way to go.

Emily Dickinson

These are the days when Birds come back --
A very few -- a Bird or two --
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies resume
The old -- old sophistries of June --
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee --
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief.

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear --
And softly thro' the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.

Oh Sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze --
Permit a child to join.

Thy sacred emblems to partake --
They consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!

Went rowing yesterday and today. Last evening, the water was calm and quiet, herons gliding by overhead. When I came in, I carried a dusky stillness with me. This afternoon, a whole different story. I nearly got run over twice by power boats and had to duck and dodge big sailboats for nearly the whole row. But it doesn't matter. I was out on the river and there's no where else I'd rather be.

Apple for the teacher? I picked this beauty from a fruit tree in Durham. The tree's loaded with fruit that seems to be going to waste, probably because the apples have spots. Next time I pass by, I'll be sure to bring a bag.

Am starting back to teach tomorrow after eight months on sabbatical. Oh how I wish everyone could have that gift of time. The ability to just stop.
And recoup. I'm very happy to be going back. Have missed my students.
Have missed the wonderful energy that happens in a classroom. Maybe I will take my dove to class. . .

Just Another Ordinary Day on the River

Am mesmerized by the patterns stones make in walls. How they do and do not fit together and yet -- there is a wall. Would love to do a painting of this section.

And these many greys are much like the greys I saw down on the dock this afternoon as I bailed tropical storm Danny out of my boat. I'd throw water out and the wind would throw it right back. After awhile it seemed like a game. Took me a long time to win.
To the seagulls, it was just another
ordinary day on the river.

The Most Beautiful Boat in the World

I finally got my boat into the water. Had to sneak into a neighbor's yard to get this picture. She has 4 or 5 dogs who were driven into a frenzy by my trespassing. Sounded like 10 or 11 dogs, really. Who cares. Worth it for a picture of the most beautiful boat in the world.

Late and Nearly Only Sunflower

The rainiest June on record did away with most of the sunflowers I planted. This one just began to open a few days ago. Can there really be that much hair on the leaves? I never noticed before. Doesn't this vaguely resemble a Venus Fly Trap?

One for the Green

This truck belongs to a neighbor who lost his driver's license. Looks to me like he might not be getting it back.

Floppy

Worked for several hours in the "junk" room today, sorting through an astounding amount of meaningless paper. And mold. But very happily came across this picture of Floppy, the dog who came to our house the day I was born. Whenever I got sad, I'd take him under the big old oak dining room table and put my arms around him and we'd both just sit there, happy as could be, invisible because of the table cloth. It was my hidden home inside our house. No doubt about it. He was my guardian angel.

Putting things together

I'm cleaning and organizing the room that had become the junk room. In the process, I unearthed copies of books I've written and I put them together. Hard to tell from this picture because they've fanned out but the poems/books I've spent my life writing can be held easily in one hand. At first that seemed kind of pitiful. But on consideration, it became
marvelous, ecologically beautiful and actually, a kind of true magic -- like a tiny zoo made entirely of origami animals or
even a little bit like those weird little pebbles we used to get when we were kids, the kind you tossed into your water glass and watched as they bloomed into what the advertising called "gardens under the sea." Only poems are better. Because they do open and extend themselves in the most astonishing ways. And when you shut the book, the poems shrink then vanish right back into their thin, nearly weightless paper homes.

What we've been carrying all this time

It is the beginning of summer and we
are at the museum. The line begins in a bright white room with a marble floor and statues of Greek Gods and Goddesses. Some of them are missing heads, some missing arms but nevertheless, they are radiantly beautiful. There seem to be thousands of us, happy, excited and waiting with patience. Each of us has a small box or parcel and all of them are handmade and lightweight. When the line begins to move, I see that we are filling the entire museum as we're being guided to the top floor, the roof really, where there is a huge garden. There is earth enough for everyone and we are each given time to plant the seeds we've been carrying in the boxes or cloth parcels. I see that a woman has planted nasturtiums and this makes me happy because they are such easy flowers to grow, so bright and lively, and they are edible. It's clear to me, suddenly,
that this earth is sacred; the seeds are what we've made of our lives; the whole roof-top garden a thank you to God. And even a simple flower like the nasturtium is welcome.

When I staggered out of the junk room, covered in dust and mold, I found this beautiful day!

Television Jewelry

I've been watching too much TV. Decided to put the whammy on that.
So hung three necklaces, via nail polish bottles, to drop down over the screen -- reminding me to do something else. Anything else. Actually, the TV looks pretty spiffy wearing jewelry. And I went into the
room where everything collects and worked on clearing it. Will take many more days. But was inspired to keep working when I discovered folders of poetry covered in mold. That's how neglected that room truly is. I want it
glowing by the time school starts --all moldy poems bleached clean.

In a garden that's mostly occupied by pink, magenta and yellow flowers, this blue (and it's an even deeper blue in person) seems almost supernatural.

Moon Man

Some high school kids bought up a batch of mice and let them go in assembly. Many were trampled to death. This little guy escaped and lived for six months at the Stratham SPCA. I adopted him on Halloween, full moon. Hence the name.
He's a pretty old guy now, almost three. So I was happy, just now, when he took a little sun bath and I was able to get some good pictures! He answers to his name, lets me pat him. And he has the most wonderful, petal-like ears.

The Committe To Begin Essential Piano Placement

Painted pianos all over London this summer. Anyone can sit down and play. This is enough to make me buy a ticket to England, pronto. But even better, let's start a campaign to put musical instruments in every town and city!

In the Other Kind of Time by Mark Nepo

IN THE OTHER KIND OF TIME
by Mark Nepo

Let's journey now
to the other kind of time
where we've known each other
for centuries, beneath our names,
beneath our pain, to the other side
where we can stop to listen
the way fox listen to the night.

Come with me out of the cold
where we can put down the
notions we've been carrying
like torn flags into battle.

We can throw them to the earth
or place them in the earth, and ask,
why these patterns in the first place?
If you want, we can repair them, if
they still seem true. Or we can
sing as they burn.

Come. Let's feel our way
beneath the noise where we
can ask what it means to be alive
and lift our chins from the stream
like deer who've outrun
all the hunters.

Intense blackberry love

My sister, who's from Oregon, laughed at my yard
that by now looks almost like Sleeping Beauty's castle, wreathed and impassible because of thorny rose vines. In my case, it's blackberries. Kathleen
said, "Every single person I know does everything they can to get the blackberries out of their yard. You do everything to encourage them. . ."
Yes siree Bob I do. For me and the birds. Here is the first ripe berry of July. And one picture down, you can guess what happened.

Capybara Solo

Capybara Ensemble

Watch for Sandra Beasley --Dazzling New Poet

Keep an eye out for poet Sandra Beasley. In this month's issue of Poetry, one of her poems,
Unit of Measure appears. I'll post it here along with a terrific poem called Love Poem for Wednesday. She has one book already published, Theories of Falling
and another book, I Was the Jukebox, due out in April of 2010.

Unit of Measure

All can be measured by the standard of the capybara.
Everyone is lesser than or greater than the capybara.
Everything is taller or shorter than the capybara.
Everything is mistaken for a Brazilian dance craze
more or less frequently than the capybara.
Everyone eats greater or fewer watermelons
than the capybara. Everyone eats more or less bark.
Everyone barks more than or less than the capybara,
who also whistles, clicks, grunts, and emits what is known
as his alarm squeal. Everyone is more or less alarmed
than a capybara, who—because his back legs
are longer than his front legs—feels like
he is going downhill at all times.
Everyone is more or less a master of grasses
than the capybara. Or going by the scientific name,
more or less Hydrochoerus hydrochaeris—
or, going by the Greek translation, more or less
water hog. Everyone is more or less
of a fish than the capybara, defined as the outermost realm
of fishdom by the 16th-century Catholic Church.
Everyone is eaten more or less often for Lent than
the capybara. Shredded, spiced, and served over plantains,
everything tastes more or less like pork
than the capybara. Before you decide that you are
greater than or lesser than a capybara, consider
that while the Brazilian capybara breeds only once a year,
the Venezuelan variety mates continuously.
Consider the last time you mated continuously.
Consider the year of your childhood when you had
exactly as many teeth as the capybara—
twenty—and all yours fell out, and all his
kept growing. Consider how his skin stretches
in only one direction. Accept that you are stretchier
than the capybara. Accept that you have foolishly
distributed your eyes, ears, and nostrils
all over your face. Accept that now you will never be able
to sleep underwater. Accept that the fish
will never gather to your capybara body offering
their soft, finned love. One of us, they say, one of us,
but they will not say it to you.

Love Poem for Wednesday

You’re the day after Tuesday, before eternity.
You’re the day we ran out of tomatoes
and used tiny packets of ketchup instead.

You are salt, no salt, too much salt, a hangover.
You hold the breath of an abandoned cave.
Sometimes you surprise me with your

aurora borealis and I’ll pull over to watch you;
I’ll wait in the dark shivering fields of you.
But mostly, not. My students don’t care for you

or your lessons from the life of a minor god.
Can you hit the high C in our anthem?
Can you bench press a national disaster?

I fear for you, Wednesday. Your papers
are never in order. Your boots track in mud.
You’re the day I realized I didn’t even like him,

and the day I still said yes, yes, yes.
Sometimes I think you and I should elope,
and leave this house of cards to shuffle itself.

You are love, no love, too much love, a cuckold.
You are the loneliest of the three bears, hoping
to come home and find someone in your bed.

Poet's diet

The cornflake turned out to be this beautiful little moth, Japanese-looking to me, in design, at least. Very fitting for this bowl, also Japanese. I wonder how many of these moths I've eaten. . .

This is my favorite bowl and you can see it's cracked, glued, well-used. A couple of days ago, I started to pour cereal and saw what I thought was a cornflake that had easily escaped my
slap-dash dish-washing. . .

Fresh Baked Batch of Clothes-pins

In the Neighbor's Shaggy Old Pine

Full moon tonight, or maybe tomorrow. I was using a camera set to Night Pictures and that meant the shutter stayed opened longer and that meant things went beautifully out of focus: egg glowing in a nest made of twilight.

Brownie, Free At Last!

Took six squirrels from the Center for Wildlife to my friend Lorisa's house. She has ten acres of forest behind her house. We released all six, including Brownie. One zoomed right out. The remaining five were very reluctant to leave the safety of their peanut filled carriers. I'm not sure but I think this is Brownie, holding on to the crate door, gazing toward freedom. . .

Tree picture below is his new home.

Wettest Darkest June Ever

Not the 6th rainiest June on record. THE rainiest June on record, ever. And also, this past June
had the least sunlight ever. I am becoming unhinged. And so is Eloise the dog who broke loose
today and ran straight into traffic two times, saved only by excellent drivers. Thunder storms make her crazy. Soon, I, too, will be running toward oncoming traffic, mistaking headlights, no doubt,
for the sun. . .

Poet Lisa Siemens

Lisa Siemens, wonderful poet and teacher, with one of her cats. Lisa's the one who worked with Kate Barnes.

Art provided by grocery shopping

Three quotes from Marilynn Robinson's Gilead

"For me, writing has always felt like praying. . .you feel you are with someone. I feel I am
with you now. . ."

"Sometimes I have loved the peacefulness of an ordinary Sunday. It is like standing in a newly
planted garden after a warm rain. You can feel the silent and invisible life. All it needs from you is that you take care not to trample it."

". . .it is easy to believe in such moments that water was made primarily for blessing, and only
secondly for growing vegetables or doing wash. I wish I had paid more attention to it. . . .This
is an interesting planet. It deserves all the attention you can give it."

Maybe 6th wettest June ever

So far this June, we've had 6.5 inches of rain and this might well be the 6th rainiest June EVER. Not a contest I was hoping we'd win. So here are a few pictures from the garden. Everything's rain-varnished and even the zinnia (that's clearly had a few slug run-ins) is looking
radiant. The plant above is my first lima bean plant & I took its picture because I'm fairly certain it, too, will have slug visitors and probably won't survive. . .

As for the rain? I've learned that car pollution increases the likelihood of rain. Auto pollution from commuters builds up all week so that there's a 22% higher chance of rain on Saturday than on Monday.

Virga is the name of rain that falls but never reaches earth. (How I would love to see some of that!)

One source described various rain drops as being shaped like hamburger buns!, doughnuts
and parachutes.

And Ilor in Choco, Columbia gets the largest measured rainfall in the world at 523 inches a year! I guess what we've been having would seem like minor drizzle to them.

Slug love

Slugs have taken over my garden for the first time, ever. All sizes. All colors. They've turned the zinnias to skeletons. Ditto the eggplants. And now they have gone to work on the cucumbers and
marigolds. I bought a special flashlight to go slug-hunting at night. They creep out after dusk and
I found dozens and sent them swiftly to the beyond.

However, I did notice that while I was in a frenzy, they were not. The slug "vibe" is very peaceful,
almost sweet. This prompted me to learn about them. And they are remarkable. They can stretch, if need be, 20 times their normal length. When one set of teeth wear out, another set appears from
behind and sets to work. They are hermaphrodites. Made mostly of water, they thrive in wet, cool weather. (Hence, the appearance of tens of thousands of them in my garden.) Sometimes they swing from thin strings of slime while have slug sex. I'm not so jazzed about the slime but do love the concept of joining in midair while being buoyed about by wind. . .

Long and short of it -- I am leaving them alone now. It's just as much their yard as mine. More theirs. Slug love. It's a good thing.

Verbal sunlight/Poem by Kate Burns

My friend, Lisa Siemans, is both a wonderful poet and teacher. She sends me poems that her kids write. (And if I can get her to send me one of her poems, I'll put it here as soon as I get it! ) This poem is by Kate Burns who was only in 2nd or 3rd grade when she wrote it.

ART SECRETS

I have a secret about art.

Listen to your art
as you draw:
The roller skate talks to you,
your birds sing to you,
your cat purrs for you,
your people watch
as you draw
the parts
around them.
They are happy
to be art.

Feels like it has been raining here for
decades. Well, a month at least. The sun came out this afternoon for about five minutes and even the old cat woke from his nap, started at what appeared to be warmth coming through the window. Near sunset, too, just five minute's worth of sunlight broke through and I took pictures, just in case the deluge continues and I need visual proof that sunlight, somewhere, exists.

Poem by Jared Carter

Mourning Doves

That all my life I have listened to the calls
of mourning doves, have heard them hidden far back
under the eaves, or perched among sycamore branches—
their five still notes sometimes lost in the wind—
and not known how to answer: this I confess,
lying here now, on a summer morning, in a dark room
no less lit by the sound of their soft calling

than by your breathing. And though you might dream
that I lie stretched beside you, I am alone again,
and a child, hearing these same dim voices drifting
high outside my window, explaining to myself how
these are the cries of the newly dead, in the dawn light,
rising toward heaven. Only that, and a child's need
to make up stories on falling asleep, or waking.

And though you might speak, out of that dream, or form
some forbidden word on your lips, my response
would be no more than the music two of them can make—
matching their notes in time, setting up harmonies
that are clear, and pure, and accidental even
to their own reckoning, since all of their singing
is circular, and comes back to the same stillness.

It is back to that place they are calling us now,
and it is out of not knowing that I brush away
strands of hair from your face, and begin to kiss
your eyes, your lips—that I might take sleep
from your mouth into mine, that we might dream invention,
and you hear my confession, and I your answering,
like a song traded back and forth in the morning light.

-Jared Carter

Spent 8 hours yesterday weeding out a very small patch that contained, to my surprise, some very determined, sturdy, entirely hidden wild roses. Invisible yesterday.
And today?
Rain-glazed and, I am fairly sure, very happy.

Ashes to Petals

Last week, I burned love letters from someone long gone. Not out of anger. Just because it was time to let them go. And fire seemed a good way to add energy to a relationship that had been more air than anything else. I burned the cards and letters one by one in a small charcoal grill. The neigbors later said they thought I was cooking dinner for my sister. Days later, when everything had cooled, I poured the considerable ash pile into a part of the garden I hadn't planted yet and mixed ash with rich dirt. Then I planted these cosmos plants. There are buds already. Soon there will be red and white and purple and pink flowers, a good way to let go and honor at the same time.

Consider me for this job!

 The Telephone

 "When I was just as far as I could walk
 From here today,
 There was an hour
 All still
 When leaning with my head against a flower
 I heard you talk.
 Don't say I didn't, for I heard you say--
 You spoke from that flower on the windowsill--
 Do you remember what it was you said?"

 "First tell me what it was you thought you heard."

 "Having found the flower and driven a bee away,
 I leaned my head,
 And holding by the stalk,
 I listened and I thought I caught the word--
 What was it?  Did you call me by my name?
 Or did you say--
 Someone said 'Come'--I heard it as I bowed."

 "I may have thought as much, but not aloud."

 "Well, so I came."

           -Robert Frost

Lose a squirrel, gain a dove

This dove, named Perma-dove, has or had been at the Center for Wildlife for at least 10 years. He or she was brought in by someone who'd raised
him? (I'll assume since he always seemed to romance what we assumed were girl birds.) from a baby. Too tame to be released. So for 10 years
Perma was company for many incoming and outgoing birds. Now he has arthritis and so when I turned in my squirrels, I came home with him!
He coos while I work at the computer. He coos when it's morning. He coos to birds outside the window. He coos when I coo. Already, we are soulmates.

Worked at the Center for Wildlife on Saturday. Haven't seen my squirrels in a couple of weeks. They were sent to squirrel school, really, to figure out how to be wild. They were in an outdoor cage with four other squirrels. The four who didn't know me hid in their nesting boxes. Did I mention we aren't supposed to name them? And that I'm not supposed to give them peanuts (not that nutritious.) Especially not supposed to call out their illegal names, now that they are grownups and wild. But I did all of the above and Brownie and Greylings popped out of their nesting boxes, ate the peanuts while eyeing me cautiously. Such handsome big boys! Soon to be released out into the green, green trees. . .

My sister Kathleen's been here visiting from Eugene, Oregon. She's a pediatric nurse but she's also a cat magnet. Well, dog magnet, too. Let's just put it this way. They all fought over who got her lap. Mainly Sammy the black cat won. So they are formally engaged. . .