Sunday, August 19, 2012

Poem for Sunday and Seneca Creek State Park

By Rose McLarney

Some springs, apples bloom too soon.
The trees have grown here for a hundred years, and are still quick
to trust that the frost has finished. Some springs,
pink petals turn black. Those summers, the orchards are empty
and quiet. No reason for the bees to come.

Other summers, red apples beat hearty in the trees, golden apples
glow in sheer skin. Their weight breaks branches,
the ground rolls with apples, and you fall in fruit.

You could say, I have been foolish. You could say, I have been fooled.
You could say, Some years, there are apples.


While Adam was working at Glen Echo after lunch -- we all had a pretty quiet morning, I finally finished the kind of meh historical novel I was reading only to discover to my chagrin that it's the first in a trilogy -- we went to Seneca Creek State Park. It was another gorgeous afternoon, not too warm, partly overcast, and after we hiked along the creek, we walked to the lake and through the woods around it. There were plenty of animals and lots of lush green undergrowth.

On the way home we stopped to pick up The Hunger Games on DVD (Target has a 3-disc set with extra features, which made that the place to get it), and after dinner, we watched it -- still terrific performances, and the script kept pretty much everything I thought was important from the novel. Then we watched The Timey-Wimey Stuff of Doctor Who, which I would have liked better with less Eleven and more everyone else, but I suppose we have to enjoy what we get!

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