Peak gust and west of July.
The big-voice flashers.Wings of metal and night.
Sun guzzles quick down August’s throat.
Nature must prick us with her courages also. —Vita Sackville-West
Mad March dreamsof crane flowers,birds of paradise.Strelitzia reginae a deft cutof bird and flower.
The wide sweep of today. Books, flowers, and poetry. Woolgathering and trees. The wood garden is fervor, a blaze of primula and anemone.The poplar is passion, viola-resonant, my vibrating footfall.
Midges and tetchiness.A constantly muddy mood.
In my impatience for mail it strikes me that the perianth is a floral envelope—a cloak concealing the reproductive organs . . .
Busy Lizzie. Wink and blink. Touch-me-not. Impatiens, as ever, a virtue my dear! Enough of this love your perennials and they will love you back threefold and several seasons. If you don’t like it, pull it out!
Each day the light diminishes earlier. Colors at dusk are softer with an opulence they lack under full sun. My eyes strain with the beautiful, painfulsquint. My wax flowers, my painter’s palette—a floral encaustic! The papery papavers are waxy in the frigid morning air, but by noon I can see my fingersthrough them, fluttering, a swim of color, red under red.
Je fais ce que je peux.Which is to say, midwinterand poems are as difficult as flowers.