Trumpet Vine

Trumpet Vine

 

The Trumpet Vine climbs on fence and posts. It climbs on the telephone poles.

It dresses the whole in a cascade of green accented with its orange blooms.

Bees hover near, but only certain bugs and birds have an avantage.

The ruby-throat loves the trumpet vines and so do I.

When I haven’t filled my hummer feeders I know that the tiny winged wonders will go find their sugary sips in the orange trumpets growing in heavy clusters from the corner fence posts.

God never forgets to feed them.

Late Summer Dancers

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“There is no place like a meadow to walk your soul to peace.”

c. e. hollis

Under the blue of an Oklahoma sky, I walk in the overgrown grasses and the wildflowers. Here I find joy in the colors of the earth and in the sound of wind rustling the grass mixed with bird and insect music.

Here my soul finds rest.

Here my heart can renew.

Here my spirit can praise the creator and pray.

Here the late summer dancers, the coneflowers, twirl like ballerinas in pink and white tutus. I try hard not to crush a single flower––but touch them all.

A meadowlark on a old wooden fencepost sings to the day.

I sing too.

Butterflies flutter from flower to flower. Bumblebees buzz and bumble.

Grasshoppers spring out of my path.

 The satin blue sky overheard constantly changes as cotton clouds form and move in the wind.

No, there is no place like a meadow to walk your soul to peace.

Winter: Made in Summer

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Tomatoes,

still bubbling hot in their jars, cool on the a checkered dishtowel.

The red is a sight to excite the eyes in the hot dragging days of late summer.

I love canning.

It gives a sense of accomplishment––lifting the jars from the boiling water and setting them to cool. I know they will make good meals in the winter ahead.

They will be labeled and sit in the pantry shelves waiting for a soup recipe or a spaghetti sauce I want to make.

They will still taste of summer and garden and long sunny happy days even in February when I am weary of winter.

So today, I peel tomatoes and load them into jars with a slurp and a few drips (and a half teaspoon of salt). Come winter, they will be waiting––and so good!

The Old Farm

The old farm fades with yellow at the end of a hot summer. Sunflowers grow up in the fences and sneeze weed takes the pasture. Butterflies, bumblebees, cicadas, ants, honey bees, spiders, dragonflies and horseflies hover, zip, crawl, fly, buzz, and hum the moisture from the prarie grasses and wildflowers. The horses and cows graze peacefully flapping their tails at insects and ignoring the blazing sun. Farmers fill their tractors with fuel and cut and rake hay with sweaty bandanas wrapped ’round their dry throats. The bales are stacked along the north fence and firewood is split and stacked against the seeming impossibility of a coming cold snowy blowy wet harsh winter. No one on the old farm really expects the yellow will change to brown and then to white––at least not any time soon.

I Love Light

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I Love Light

I love the way sun slants into my house through the front windows as the sun rises.

I love the way it falls across the books on the bookcases in my livingroom and how it drifts silently and sweetly across the designs on my bed quilt. I love how a breeze touches the curtains and makes the lights and shadows shiver and shimmer like the surface of a pond when the wind ripples the sky’s blue reflection.

I love light when it falls on a summer rose in a bud vase or over a bouquet full of blooms–– a mixture of bright colors and whites like these.

I love the shadows and lines of light that fall in around and through the blinds and sheers. The straight patterns beside the flowing, curving, and fluted ones give me delight.

Yes, “delight,” which sounds like “no light” or unlit, but instead says joy.

Summer Day

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Sun shines bright and early.

The whole earth seems overheated and highlighted.

Shade on the porch feels good and better with a fan.

Roses and hydrangeas bloom.

Children slurp popsicles and dream of afternoon when they can swim.

Farmers go inside and doze as they cool off to eat their lunches.

Icy water and lemonade glasses sweat and puddle up like dew rising on cold morning grass.

Hummers buzz to and from the feeders.

Mothers water their porch flowers and go inside to read and put their babies down for naps.

Dogs sleep in the shade or dig in the cool of flowerbeds to rest.

Cicadas drone and treefrogs chorus. Fireflies come out to play just as the moon rises.

Summer–– long, hot, drowzy, and wonderful.

The Skies Drip with Dew

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The Lord by wisdom founded the earth, by understanding

He established the heavens.

 

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By His knowledge the deeps are broken up and the skies drip with dew.

Proverbs 3: 19-20

 

Write the Sky

Oh, that I could write the sky,

That I could paint a flower.

It would be a glorious gift,

Were that within my power.

Wish I could give the birds voice,

That I could clothe a tree

Thank you Lord for ears and eyes

That I can hear and see!

You made the sky by wisdom,

Made the earth by brains

You warm the earth with sunlight,

And water it with rains.