This morning as I sat and watched the sky, I thought of how there always is poetry. I may not be able to write it down, and there were years when I saw but didn’t write. But it was there, and when a poem writes itself in a short time, I know the fallow years are bearing fruit.
Yesterday, we saw fields of corn. I’ve often heard the expression, “Knee high by the Fourth of July.” The plants are smaller, but how beautifully planted are all the rows. They are growing.
The autumns can be long and lovely. May the crops be blessed.
about native plants
I too thrive best
where I belong
(an older poem)