Rainstorm Mushrooms

Climate and other outdoor factors converge and create a landscape where mushrooms rarely thrive. When they do, I’m always fascinated by the fungal structures that peek from the suburban landscape before shriveling up and disappearing again.

dormant spores
lurking
hiding
biding
hidden in cool crevices
desiccated
down among nooks of decay
undaunted by days of
dark
arid
chill
but a reprieve
water
rain
moisture
soaking the soil
lingering showers
thoroughly wetting
nooks and crevices
calling
waking
beckoning
caps to peek into the sun
a moment
a day
brief appearances
reminders that
dormant is not dead
only waiting for
chance opportunity
and spring rains.

– bardo

I am not a poet, but a friend has inspired me to read more of it and think more critically about its place in the constellation of my creative pursuits. Occasionally, I’d like to post a poem here when inspiration strikes.

trails chill blight

We ran in the fresh snow last night. It was cold and potentially dangerous, a truth unceremoniously marked by an encounter with the local emergency services at work in the dark, chill below the trails.

pow’dree treads in i’see dark.
en frozen. blust’ring. cold. nay, stark
thern’winds whorl, rustle, haunt thas’night.
four, boundless, b’yond trails chill blight.

tha’sun were set, tho hints re’maned
magenta skies in west’ern waned
walk’d peoples and der’hounds thru snow
we past dem. wav’d. en on weed go.

where fresh fel’n snow obscures ern’root
leap’t o’er berms forged a for’gone foot.
tho, oft thru past we runners been
wern’t weer cool soles upon thas’seen.

resolute shunn’d eer’even pace
skiffs weer leapt oer’en shad’wee lace
well thru branches blinkt urgent reds
signals marking emerg’nt dreads

where oer thar creek spans trestle’d path
uniforms climb out tha’natured wrath
en’wen weed shine er probing lights
peekt down tward on griz’illed sights

silence. chill. in’gulfed we four souls.
onward ran, tho er hearts weer holes
marked hold’en to thas thing below
som’one fell, froze, succumb’d by snow.

thern’winds whorl, rustle, haunt thas’night.
four, boundless, b’yond trails chill blight.
digits numb’d weed end our jaunting,
frozen. blust’ring. cold. nay, haunting.

– bardo

I am not a poet, but a friend has inspired me to read more of it and think more critically about its place in the constellation of my creative pursuits. Occasionally, I’d like to post a poem here when inspiration strikes.

Reminder: Blogs are not a replacement for professional advice. Please read my note on safety and safe participation.

daylight

Dawn hides itself deeper in the morning,
As night’s darkness waxes upon winter
Year after year, as predictable as
Lunar orbits bring the tides and
Ice drawn heaps of crystalline snow
Greet shortened hours of sunlight
Honouring plotted courses through space and
Time and seasons passing now and ever.

– bardo

I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.

spayed

This morning I made a heart-aching drive to the veterinarian clinic to drop off a one-year-old puppy who, over the past almost-a-year has filled that same heart with joy … and for whom I’m returning the favour by having her reproductive organs surgically removed.

As per our agreement with the breeder, and in consultation with my friend-now-vet, the day finally arrived for this simple yet important procedure. We’re having her spayed.

spAd

It’s for her health. It’s for her happiness. It’s for her well-being.

I had thought the term was common, but my next door neighbour had never heard the term before and I had to spend a few minutes explaining it.

Any time a friend or family member (and a puppy is both, isn’t she?) goes under the knife it gives one pause for reflection and soul-aching empathy. My (very human) daughter has had minor surgery twice in her life and both times, even years later, are etched into my memory as if carved into steel with a diamond chisel.

The risks are, of course, the surgical process itself and the lingering feeling that I’m surgically altering my friend for what (at this exact moment) feels like a bit of a selfish, very human reason.

The benefits as I understand them are important: lowered risks of infections and cancers, and simply a life with fewer hormonal fluctuations. Plus, she can then safely attend daycare or local indoor dog parks and play with other dogs in a warm indoor space even as the winter rolls into a deep, immovable cold.

In the next few days we’ll be resting and recovering, chilling with lots of attention and careful pets … and maybe a few less belly rubs for a week or so.