capillary pattern
I like this because it takes a moment for me to figure out what it is, even though I took the photograph.
I think I will submit it to today’s Ragtag Daily Prompt: lollygag. As I feel better, I still need the oxygen, but it feels very weird to lollygag around, take pictures, and not go to clinic to work.
Ooooo, we have plums. I can’t keep up. I have been making jam and drying plums and I made a plum tart. Now I look out the window and panic because… apples….
I have seen the frogs
in the northwest
all you have to do is be quiet
near the puddles
or a pond
walk there very very quietly
in the spring they are singing
to each other
calling
a symphony of longing and joy
and they don’t hear me
when I walk very quietly
at the end of the world
as a child my father teaches me
to catch frogs
very quietly
approach the pond
or puddle
if the frog hears you
it will duck under water
you will only see a ripple
spreading out
or it will hop
into the woods
and hide
my father
would occasionally use frogs
as bait
to catch northern pike
a live frog on a hook
frogs scream
when you stick a hook through their back
I hope they go into shock then
and don’t feel much
one we’d seen this
my cousins and my sister and I
when my father got his fishing rod
we’d run through the woods
yelling “Hide the frogs, hide the frogs!”
and we would catch any frog
that was dumb enough not to hide
and quickly set it in the woods
to hide it from my father
we would check the puddles, too
feeling in the brownish muck
to make sure no frog was hidden
in the shallow puddle
come out, you must go in the woods
to survive
to catch the smart ones
normally
we would tiptoe to the puddle
hoping a frog was facing the other way
if they saw us, they were gone
slowly bend down, hand out
behind the frog
reach gently
grab just above the back legs
not too hard, don’t squish it
I was under ten
on a canoe trip
when I run to my father
“A frog! A frog! The biggest frog I’ve seen!
Papa, come help!”
My father comes.
An enormous frog is beside the canoe.
“Catch it.” says my father.
“Please! You catch it!” I beg.
My father creeps up on the frog.
His hand moves out slowly.
He grabs the frog, who tries to jump
and croaks, a bass, huge mouth.
“It’s a young bullfrog,” says my father.
“It will get even bigger.”
He hands it to me.
I take it carefully, shaking a little.
“We could eat it’s legs.”
“NO!” I say. I just want to hold it for a minute.
I turn it over and gently stroke it’s throat.
The frog goes limp, mesmerized.
I set it down gently, right side up,
near the water.
I squat by the frog and wait.
I am waiting for it to wake up.
The frog is so beautiful.
I wait until it wakes up
and returns home.
I have photographed lots of eagles in trees. Now I am trying to catch them in flight. It’s tricky. Against a gray sky, I am still happy with this one.
She is mistress of all she surveys.
For today’s Ragtag Daily Prompt.
I am drying apples. I may make a pie. I may try making applesauce or apply jelly, haven’t tried either before!
I am mostly staying inside, darn it, because the air quality still sucks. Mask outside, even in the car, sigh. Bleagh. No beach walk today.
There were long distance swimmers out going parallel to the shore on my last beach walk. Four of them. Women, because voices carry over the water. Brrr, but wearing wet suits. Good for them, I’m jealous.
I had my big camera with the serious zoom. The swimmers would stop to talk.

They don’t look tired or cold or stressed, do they? They were ending their swim back at North Beach.
I wrote this poem more then ten years ago, but since I want to reference it in an essay, I am putting it up here now.
Ride Forth
My grandmother
Packed all her troubles in her saddlebags
And rode forth singing
My mother
Packed all her troubles in her saddlebags
And rode forth singing
My father
Was the only one
Who ever saw the contents
He tried to drown them
My mother was loved
For her charm
I ride forth
Sometimes I sing
Sometimes I weep
My saddlebags are empty
Prayer flags flutter
Slowly shred
In the wind
I write my troubles
And my joys
On cloth
And thank the Beloved
For each
My horse is white
When I sing
Black
When I cry
A rainbow of colors
In between
The whole spectrum
That the Beloved allows
After I emptied
My saddlebags
I tried to leave them
But the people I meet
Most, most, most
Are frightened
A naked woman
On a naked horse
I had to leave my village
When I learned to ride her
Made friends with her
Beloved
My village does not allow tears
When she turns black
Their saddlebags squirm and fight
The people try to throw them on my horse
In other places
The horses are all black
The white aspect of the Beloved
Frightens them
And they attack
I carry saddlebags
And Beloved is a gentle dapple gray
And the illusion of clothes surrounds me
When we meet new people
Until we know
It is safe to shine
Bright
And dark
I hope that others ride with the Beloved
In full rainbow
I ride forth
Sometimes I sing
Sometimes I weep
Even the color lonely
Is a part of the Beloved
BLIND WILDERNESS
in front of the garden gate - JezzieG
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