FLOWERS OF SUMMER

YESTERDAY, (OR IS IT TODAY?) WAS THE FIRST DAY OF SUMMER, THE LONGEST DAY OF THE YEAR. I GUESS WE CAN SAY, FROM NOW ON, IT IS ALL DOWN HILL. I TOOK THIS PICTURE THIS MORNING IN OUR BACKYARD GARDEN, AND I DO NOT KNOW WHAT MORE COULD BE SAID ABOUT THE DELIGHT OF SUMMER EXCEPT PERHAPS THIS POEM BY ROBERT LEWIS STEVENSON CALLED:

THE FLOWERS

ALL THE NAMES I KNOW FROM NURSE

GARDENER'S GARTERS, SHEPHERD'S PURSE,

BACHELOR'S BUTTONS, LADY'S SMOCK,

AND THE LADY HOLLYHOCK

FAIRY PLACES, FAIRY THINGS,

FAIRY WOODS WHERE THE WILD BEE WINGS,

TINY TREES FOR TINY DAMES----

THESE MUST ALL BE FAIRY NAMES!

TINY WOODS BELOW THOSE BOUGHS

SHADY FAIRIES WEAVE A HOUSE;

TINY TREE-TOPS, ROSE OR THYME,

WHERE THE BRAVER FAIRIES CLIMB!

FAIR ARE GROWN-UP PEOPLE'S TREES,

BUT THE FAIREST WOODS ARE THESE;

WHERE IF I WERE NOT SO TALL,

I SHOULD LIVE FOR GOOD AND ALL.

AH, YES....WERE I NOT SO TALL, AND WERE THERE NOT SNAKES IN THE GARDEN, I TOO WOULD ENJOY LIVING AMONG THE BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS OF SUMMER!

* CLICK ON PICTURE TO SEE FLOWER DETAIL

SO YOU THINK YOUR LIFE DOESN'T MATTER
If you don't know about "The Writer's Almanac" website, and you love poetry, you will love clicking into this site. I have always known that poetry needs to be read aloud for its full enjoyment and appreciation, and this is what this web-site will bring you; a poem of the day read by Garrison Keeler along with other tidbits of the day. Last week, I was experiencing one of those nasty days when I was thinking that my life was worthless and did not amount to much, or that I made any difference to anyone at all on this stage we call LIFE. And then, as if a mysterious hand led me to this poem, read on The Writer's Almanac, I was able to make a pyridine shift to envision things differently. This poem is sad, but also profound, and I invite you to read it here, and then think about the people in your life that YOU make a difference to......

IT IS NOT THE FACT THAT I WILL DIE THAT I MIND
                                                            Poem by: Jim Moore
but that no one will love as I did
the oak tree out my boyhood window,
the mother who set herself
so stubbornly against life,
the sister with her serious frown
and her wish for someone by her side,
the father with his dreamy gaze
and his left hand idly buried
in the fur of his dog.
And the dog herself,
that mournful look and huge appetite,
her need for absolute stillness
in the presence of a bird.
I know how each of them looks
when sleeping. And I know how it feels
to fall asleep among them.
No one knows that but me,
No one knows how to love the way I do.

And isn't this really the measure of each of us? We each have a few people in our lives for which we make a real difference, one difference being that we know them and love them in a singular, unique way that is not available to anyone else. I think that we all crave someone to be in our life who can be our historian, our notebook, and to know us and love us to the enth degree of honesty, warts and all.