after pruning grapes in winter

kee jaa gigrrijaa filled dawn
     downtempo
sound
seep
            ing
                        ing
                                    ing
sleep ing in
     water sprinkle
plash bark dust bath.

the little ones pleach
            apple yellow
irotollak frisson
            bird dew squish.
            A tugboat crow lands
pushes off in creosote
            dress
   high in drifting fir.

a hummer comes as close
            as a baseball pitch
to drink from the brim
            of my blue Los Angeles
               Dodgers cap
(you don’t often see them
   this far north
you see SF Giants
and S Mariners
and we used to see
P Beavers
infrequently, but still).

the keens and leeks
            trill and cheep
   haphazard lines
zig
            zag
   ging
spring
            forth
                        com
ing
loquacious
red clippers and blue rakes
dark mud-brown enfilades
with light soot patches.

get springy not yet,
            yet,
on the horizon,
            we hear lines
            of
ee ee ee ee ee ee ee ee ee ee ee ee ee’s
coming.

A Cat For All Seasons

A Cat For All Seasons– It’s spring! Don’t you just love spring?
– Winter will come again. It always does.
– The ice has melted. Like e. e. cummings said,
in Just-
spring          when the world is mud-
luscious”
– It’s supposed to rain again tomorrow.
– But this is today! And we’re alive in this spring moment!
– A more responsible view is to remain mindful that the seasons are in constant motion, and anything can happen and usually does. In any case, from a universal perspective, there is only one season, a murkiness that lends itself to a contemplation of a dark void.
– Yes, but it’s spring! And I feel like hop-scotching and jumping rope!
– It won’t be long before the hurricane season will be upon us again, to say nothing of tornadoes. As Robert Frost pointed out, “Some say the world will end in fire / Some say in ice.” And he should have known; he was a poet. But I don’t see how it much matters, an end is an end is an end is an end, but all these literary allusions are just illusions to wile away the time until winter comes again and we cry out, “Winter is icummen in,” and you know the rest.
– Oh, you’re just an old goat!
Cherry BlossomsLook at this wonderful picture I took last night with my cell phone of the moon glowing through the cherry blossoms!
– Reminds me of the time we went to see “The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension!,” and they burnt the popcorn. Besides, you can’t fool me; that’s not the moon – that’s an electric spotlight in the parking lot of The Old Spaghetti Factory.
– Listen! I think I hear a whistle!

Yet More on the Disappearance of Newspapers; or, Welcome to Spring Training!

I went out this morning to snag The Oregonian from its usual pitch somewhere across the front drive area, but it was nowhere to be found. It was a lovely, solid gold morning. The car windows were a bit frozen still, but the blue and yellow sky was promising the answer e. e. cummings suggested the earth provides to the “how often” questions posed by the “prurient philosophers…,” “science prodded…,” and “religions…squeezing…”: “thou answerest them only with spring,” cummings said.

So I took his answer and coffee cup and sauntered off into the back yard to soak up some morning rays. The grape I had moved yesterday from the back fence to the old patio looks like it likes its new home – more sun!

After a few Thoreauvian moments spent contemplating the grape, the sun, the greens, blues, and yellows of the fine print spring morning, I went back inside to report to Susan the disappearance of the newspaper. She of course, in her offline logic, accused me of cancelling it. I did not cancel it. I like the newspaper.

Susan tried the phone to circulations or delivery or somebody, got busy signals, but then, looking out the nook window, exclaimed, “There’s our newspaper!” “Where?” “On the car window!”

“Wow, what a pitch,” I said, “and Spring Training is underway!”

Related:

What we will miss when newspapers disappear

Where Richard Rodgriguez meets Bartleby, the Scrivener