L'aura del Campo

Two headed daffodils

SPRING: 5 Bahá 163 (March 25)

Weather where I am: about 50 and very, very sunny.

Weather in Peterborough, Ontario where Rita Cline is: about 35 and cloudy, wet and dreary.

Which leads me to a discussion about daffodils. Most folk are familiar with the yellow trumpets that disturb the quiet of Spring with their noisy arrival amidst the burgeoning green; but few stop to notice that all is not so simple.

There are two headed daffs as well. And some are pink! And some are orange or white or ... well let's just say that there is more to look at and REALLY SEE if you choose to see. In Norwegian we call one påskelilje, in Swedish a bouquet is called påskliljor.

They beckon us with their cheerfulness regardless of the language (and they are really deaf, so it doesn't matter). They tend to hang out with the hyacinths that are quieter but stink up the neighborhood quite well. And they rush each year to get in front of the tulips. They are like that, you see. They demand our recognition. Brook no quarter for competition.

Today I noticed the minidaffs in the downtown planters. Bright gold, they shout at passers-by. Few stop to listen to their yellow tones or notice that they nod two heads and sometimes three. There boom beneath the comprehension of an urban crowd that will spend an hour in an upscale shop, but never stop to honor the beauty that surrounds them.

For daffs have no price attached. They bloom regardless and give their joy to all who pay attention and SEE and HEAR God's gift around them.

PÃ¥skliljor for you!







D        D        D
A      a      A
F     f     F
F    f    F
O   o   O
D  d  D
I   i   I
L l L
SsS

My friend Rita is off to a Rock and Mineral Show next weekend. Wish I were there! I love looking at stones and rocks. Love malachite and tigers eye and am curious bout most everything else. Sandy Cline, Rita's husband carves soapstone. Wonder what he is carving these days?

SENSED

Lily-of-the-valley perfume; two-headed and three-headed yellow mini daffodils; the bright Sun; picking off a scab, the blood, red splotches on white beard; green carpet; green walls; green leaves; a pride of dandelions crouching close to the southern slopes by Corbin-GSP.

Got some good news. An amateur hockey magazine wants some of my poems for their May issue. Can't wait to see it!

I will add a letter later in the day, if I get a chance. Wrote a prose poem "Letter to Gary, written while I walked" [163.8] It's very 'nice'. I was in a good mood. Off to lunch now ... later.

Now is later. 49 here and 37 in Peterborough. The prose-poem letter:

Letter to Gary, written while I walked

Dear Gare, Sun wakens my dreams and I'm off for a walk. It's that season when green clings to the end of twigs not sure whether it's time to sally forth. They're new, you see, unsure of the chill, yet trusting the Sun. The birds feel this too, sitting on the highest perch. What do they see in us? The elm spreads out its green tinged lace over the chapel roof, while oaks still cling to Autumn's past, brown leaves bleached by Winter hiding their new buds. The South Park sycamores expose their varicose veins, green where the bark's flaked off. Even standing by their massive trunks to block the wind, I feel the chill that promises so much. Most trees show damage here. The storm came through two weeks ago and rearranged our lives, broke off some limbs. Now it's all cleaned up, but scars remain. I walk away among the seedballs, the small white weeds, as the cardinal calls, unanswered and unseen. I'd invite you here for breakfast, if I could! Each Saturday, a group of youth come by to cook some sausage, fry some eggs and flip those pancakes on the grill! We eat whatever's offered, but they provide kindness most of all. And it's kindness I crave most of all, dear friend. It puts a smile upon the day when all else fails. Although, the hyacinths and daffodils do their part too, purple fragrance and golden faced. I'm walking past the Friendship Park and watch two young girls play. I don't watch long. I stop to view the cherry buds, two blooms and then move on. In sheltered spots, there's growth. I go into Gary's coffeehouse and seek the couch. It's where I've called on Winter days; it guards the essence of my most dangerous thoughts, my joy, my inner tears. Here, I'm safe. I truly cherish you and wish you'd join me. A coffee for me. Tea for you? I treasure these dreams when I go for walks. I hope your dreams as well come true. Your meadowbreeze, your KÃ¥re. [163.8]

Now edited and posted in reviewable form as "Letter to Gary, written while I walked" .