Forcing the Forsythia
By Thomas Reiter
“Feed your cutting one time-release
capsule,” said the packet from Burpee,
“and you’ll be amazed.” Bending
to spring in a teardrop vase
we find that the window, backlit
by kitchen lights at dawn, reflects
our blossoming branch. And through that,
inches on the other side, a branch
of the bush that gave us this. Forsythia
lean toward the clarity between them
as if each has designs on the other.
A wind comes up, honed by river-bottom
thistles and costing us congruence,
then drops off. The bush corrects itself
so the moment’s optics allot petals
to buds still held in ice—a single
flowering. And there we are too on the glass.
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Thursday was a beautiful day, cool but partly sunny, daffodils and forsythia coming out all over the neighborhood. I am trying to learn my new phone's camera so I took a lot of pictures of them and of the two bunnies hanging out near our cul-de-sac. Plus I did some work and a bunch of scanning including every letter my first pen-pal ever sent me, in the late '70s-early '80s, which were a blast to reread.
I chatted with my usual Thursday night fangirl friends in between two episodes of the second season of Last Tango in Halifax, which isn't as funny as people led me to believe, but I love the characters except the ones I want to punch repeatedly like John, and even he's better than half the people on The Gilded Age). Here are some of the many turtles we saw in the C&O Canal last weekend:
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