I continue to follow the milkweed plants, waiting for the "spider" seed bits to erupt from the pods. Because I have been looking regularly and closely at the milkweed, I have seen some unexpected things! This is a wonderful aspect of photography; it helps the eye and the heart to pay attention.
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| I wasn't expecting to see a frog on the milkweed pod, so I almost missed it! |
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| a closer look, from the side |
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| The next morning -- I am assuming it was the same frog, since this leaf was below where the frog sat yesterday. |
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| a few days later, a gathering of young milkweed bugs |
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| and the same spider type as two weeks earlier! (See the next image) |
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| I have had a request for the name of this spider -- I can't find it on the "fantastic spiders" or "weird spiders" web sites. Can anyone help me?? Please?? |
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| Meanwhile, the deer continue to visit us and check our apple drops. We have to get them before they do! |
And in the big world, a special Irish poet, Seamus Heaney, died August 30, 2013. These are the books of his poetry that my husband has had for many years, and he heard him read in Louisville, KY as well.
Where would our lives be without fine, brave and generous poets.
I may end up writing my own poem to go with my series of milkweed photos, but today I am sharing a poem by Philip Levine, called Milkweed.
Milkweed by Philip Levine
Remember how unimportant
they seemed, growing loosely
in the open fields we crossed
on the way to school. We
would carve wooden swords
and slash at the luscious trunks
until the white milk started
and then flowed. Then we'd
go on to the long day
after day of the History of History
or the tables of numbers and order
as the clock slowly paid
out the moments. The windows
went dark first with rain
and then snow, and then the days,
then the years ran together and not
one mattered more than
another, and not one mattered.
Two days ago I walked
the empty woods, bent over,
crunching through oak leaves,
asking myself questions
without answers. From somewhere
a froth of seeds drifted by touched
with gold in the last light
of a lost day, going with
the wind as they always did.
they seemed, growing loosely
in the open fields we crossed
on the way to school. We
would carve wooden swords
and slash at the luscious trunks
until the white milk started
and then flowed. Then we'd
go on to the long day
after day of the History of History
or the tables of numbers and order
as the clock slowly paid
out the moments. The windows
went dark first with rain
and then snow, and then the days,
then the years ran together and not
one mattered more than
another, and not one mattered.
Two days ago I walked
the empty woods, bent over,
crunching through oak leaves,
asking myself questions
without answers. From somewhere
a froth of seeds drifted by touched
with gold in the last light
of a lost day, going with
the wind as they always did.
Steadfast vision, stillness, artful eye, heart open to wonder.
ReplyDeleteThank you!