One thing to love

I'm discovering that "city life", as it is commonly thought of, is not very much to my liking. There's no surprise in this for me, really. The pointless traffic and acres of asphalt leave me wanting for home...

One perk, though, is that the mass of humanity I live among is a stop on many a national book tour. I can slog my way into the ridiculous traffic that always looms outside the door and find myself, at the local Baptist church, in the company of some of my favorite authors. This week it was Khaled Hosseini touring for his new book, And the Mountains Echoed.

From Amazon.com:

"... a novel about how we love, how we take care of one another, and how the choices we make resonate through generations. In this tale... Hosseini explores the many ways in which families nurture, wound, betray, honor, and sacrifice for one another; and how often we are surprised by the actions of those closest to us, at the times that matter most."

If you've somehow never read his earlier books, please do find them. He's a wonderful storyteller. They are not easy happy stories, but wonderful in the way he leads his characters through a world of sadness and loss to a place of hope.

For many years I used Hosseini's The Kite Runner in the remedial reading classes I taught at the community college. For most of my students, it was the first novel they "willingly" read and discussed. Many of them, as well as my colleagues, questioned my choice of a novel about Afghanistan and one with such difficult themes. The thing is, while his books are mostly set there, they're not necessarily "about" that faraway place and it's the poetry of his words and his ability to speak to emotion and human shortcomings that make him a great read, I think.

I brought along my dog-eared copy to be signed by the author. I was embarrassed at the thought of actually having him sign it, with the state it's in... pages falling out, a hundred vocabulary words highlighted, my notes for student discussion scribbled in the margins.

: )

I was saved from offering him any explanation by rain pelting the church windows and the sound of sirens. We were told a "strong storm" was approaching and the signing line was hastily closed. Totally drenched on my way to the car, I asked someone what the sirens meant...

Add the possibility of tornadoes to the list of things that are not to my liking... where I come from, the only time we heard those sirens was on winter mornings to announce to the community that schools were closed for a snow day. Do they still do that where you're from? Those sirens are a happy sound in my memory! Talk about culture shock.

Please take the opportunity to hear him speak if you should be lucky enough to live somewhere that his book tour will visit. He feels like a very, very genuine man and is as great a storyteller in person as on the pages of his novels.

As always, let me know what you think! Let talk books!

These days

I'd been waiting ever so patiently (not) for that glorious day that felt like Spring for the first time and it finally came on Saturday last. I sat in the sun for a couple hours and finished the latest Barbara Kingsolver book. It's a good one; I'd recommend it, especially when combined with some overdue sunshine.

I seem to have lost all tolerance for cold weather. Probably that happened around the time that I moved here and threw away most all of my winter clothing in the process.

Spring happens differently here... everything is coming into bloom at once. Daffodils and Redbud and Forsythia and Azalea are all screaming for my attention at the same time.  It's hard to relish any one thing.

In an ongoing effort to keep myself busy, I'm starting volunteer training later this week to be a docent for Trees Atlanta in their Beltline Arboretum program. I'm doing this so that I can lead bird walks on the Beltline for Atlanta Audubon and be able to sound as intelligent about trees and art and the history of Atlanta as I do about birds. We'll see how that goes.

: )

I've been reading a lot of cooking blogs these days and I think that, more than anything, this attests to just how out of sorts I'm feeling. I hate cooking, remember? I do enjoy reading about it, though, and enjoy the excuse of trying out a new recipe because I saw it on a favorite blog. Anyone have a good cooking blog to share? The blogs I enjoy the most are written by people who seem to approach cooking the way I do... as something like a science experiment. I like reading about their failures and mistakes because it makes me feel less incompetent myself...

Do you like scones? I have a couple recipes that I use often... a favorite is maple walnut scones. I tried dressing them up a couple weeks back with frozen blueberries that were leftover from some we'd picked last summer. I was wholly disappointed with the results... those frozen blueberries had no flavor whatsoever!

It turned out that the frozen blueberries I'd used were actually black beans. Ask me what they were doing in the freezer. Ask me, too, how I didn't realize they were black beans instead of blueberries.

It's good to be able to laugh these days.

Elf orpine

I know you're thinking, "Oh my God! What IS that? It's red!"

If so, you may be a plant geek like me.

; )

I had the very same reaction when I saw photos of it in my copy of Favorite Wildflower Walks in Georgia after it was gifted to me on my very first weekend here. I couldn't wait to see this unique little plant in person.

Elf Orpine or Small's Stonecrop (Diamorpha smallii) is a succulent that grows on granite outcrops in the Southeastern US.

We first went looking for it back in late September... it's a winter annual, so it was still dormant on that first try. The cool and moist weather of the Georgia "winter" allow it to germinate when conditions are most favorable for the seeds to survive.

The plants are getting ready, now, to shoot up and flower in the early Spring.

(I'm not too sure, yet, when Spring hits here, but I'm guessing they'll flower in mid-March.)

I can only imagine how hot the rock on Arabia Mountain must get in summertime. It makes sense for these plants to sprout, grow, flower and set seed before the summer furnace comes on, I'd guess.

Elf Orpine grows here in shallow depressions in the granite, in very little soil. It's part of a small community of specially adapted plants that grow in the hollows, in something like dish gardens on the rock surface. Fascinating and pretty spectacular to see when blooming, I bet.

Stay tuned.

What's not to love about this man?

Image courtesy Princeton University Press

He's handsome, smart, likes birds, has that incredibly cute accent, not to mention the humungous camera lens...

(which, btw MevetS, he handholds!)

Besides the avant-garde fashion sense (look at that blue jacket!) he's also, clearly, very brave. I imagine him to be risking life and limb to photograph Harlequins out at the end of the Barnegat jetty, don't you?

Have I mentioned that he's just published a book? And a book about birds, no less!

(swooning)

My momentary infatuation is directed towards Richard Crossley and his Crossley ID Guide: Eastern Birds. I'm planning to spend this Valentine's evening curled up with it by candlelight, maybe with a glass of wine.

Like with all tender new love, all I can say is, "Wow!"

and,

"He's sees birds just like I do!"

and,

"Where has this field guide been all my life?"

and,

"Gosh... it's so sexy when he uses alpha codes!"

; )

It really is a cool guide; his approach is unconventional and that's exactly what excites me most about it. I've not ever been one to rely on a field guide. I collect them, yes. But use them? Hardly.

This is a book I want to spend time with and get to know better. I think Richard Crossley can make me a better birder.

*Please note that, while Princeton University Press has kindly provided me with a free copy of The Crossley ID Guide to review, this is not my proper review. I promise to do that once I'm over the puppy-dog stage of love and can see things more clearly.

**Please also note that I have no personal relationship with Mr. Crossley, nor do I desire such. There was a brief interaction at the Cape May Hawkwatch this fall involving the ID of a sparrow, however. I am happy to report that Mr. Crossley did not laugh me off the platform at that encounter.

(Imagine the pressure of having THE RICHARD CROSSLEY toss a roadkill sparrow your way and demand that you ID it, in hand, before he'll even make eye contact with you.)

Thanks for that experience Wren!



Have a listen as he describes the book (oohh that accent!)

And Happy Lover's Day!

Lift

Comments a couple months ago on a post I wrote about falconry led me to Rebecca's blog and most recently to her book, Lift. A memoir, it shares the lessons learned in the practice of training a Peregrine Falcon.

I'm not very far into the book, yet, but expected from reading her blog that I would enjoy it. My impression, just 80-some pages in, is that she writes well and passionately about her falcon. Already she's spoken to one of the questions I raised in that earlier blog post, on training her falcon to fly to a lure:

"The falcon and I look at each other, both startled. Then he bows his head slightly over the bird in his feet, snaps the neck and looks back up. He allows me to meet his gaze, seeing deep into his falcon's eyes and I understand that I could keep this predator on a line forever, but he will never be my pet. Over that shared look our relationship changes just a bit, because suddenly, we both grasp an obvious truth. I am looking into the eyes of a wild peregrine. It's so soon, only ten days, but it's time to let him fly free."

Yes, it is dangerous to be bound to something that can break your heart.

She's lost her bird once already to the sky and reclaimed him, changed, after only five hours on his own. I'm looking forward to learning how their relationship continues to develop.

Cutwater

also Scissorbill, Shearwater and previously known along the Virginia coast as Storm Gull.

I'd suggest the addition of Penguin Gull.

; )

Do you see the similarity?

My 1917 edition of the Birds of America is a joy for many reasons, but I particularly enjoy it for the local or historical names; so often these names are much more evocative of a bird's spirit or some fundamental quality that we associate them with.

Peterson sort of dryly describes their call as *barking* or alternately as "kaup, kaup." To me it sounds like something between a bark and a quack. Members of a colony at rest on the beach will call anxiously to one another as people approach on foot and it sounds for all the world to me like a childhood game of "Marco Polo."

Listen for that next time!

Plans

Just add sunshine.

Ruddy turnstone

Other names: Sea dotterel; Sea quail; Sand-runner; Stone-pecker; Horsefoot snipe; Brant-bird; Bead-bird; Checkered snipe; Red-legs; Red-legged plover; Chicken plover; Calico-back; Calico-jacket; Sparked-back; Streaked-back; Chuckatuck; Creddock; Jinny; Bishop plover.

... I had an exceptional chance to watch... The select company was "one little Turnstone and I," the latter armed with binoculars, the former too busy to notice intruders. He was a fine gentleman, dressed in the gaudiest calico possible for the fall fashions, yet not too proud to work for his supper. His method was not unlike that of the proverbial bull in the china shop, for he trotted about, tossing nearly everything that came in his way. Inserting the wedge of his bill under a pebble, a shell, or what not, he would give a real toss of his imperious head, and flop over it would go. His efforts seemed to be well rewarded, for he fed there for some time. It is in search of such prey that the turner of stones operates, a cog in the wheel of the system of nature, which decrees that every possible corner and crevice of the great system shall have its guardian, even the tiny spot of ground beneath the pebble on the beach.

Info from Birds of America, first published in 1917 and which includes color plates of Louis Agassiz Fuertes' paintings. Said book made for good company this evening.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The Turnstones were not so much trotting about as they were, instead, slip-sliding along the jetty rocks yesterday while they fed. There were no stones to be turned; in fact I wondered just what they were finding edible among the waves.

Still Alice

My plans for the weekend involve a blanket and a book or two.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I'm a committed non-fiction reader; resistant, for whatever reason, to the suspension of reality necessary to enjoy most novels. Sure there's the occasional story that grabs and holds me, but more often than not I leave them half-read and only half-enjoyed.

Sometime before the holidays I read the debut novel by Lisa Genova which was recommended to me by the owner of a little bookstore I found here in town.

(As a side note: How wonderful is it to have someone, anyone, employed in a bookstore actually be familiar enough with the inventory to be able to recommend something based on one's favorite authors?)

Still Alice tells the story of a Harvard professor diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. A sad story, sure, but unique in that it's told from Alice's point of view and thereby offers insight into the painful descent into dementia.

One of my most favorite parts of the novel occurs toward the end; Alice has been invited to deliver the keynote at a national conference for Alzheimer's care professionals. She makes a plea to not be forgotten and written off or limited by her disease saying, "... My yesterdays are disappearing, and my tomorrows are uncertain, so what do I live for? I live for each day. I live in the moment. Some tomorrow soon, I'll forget that I stood before you and gave this speech. But just because I'll forget it some tomorrow doesn't mean that I didn't live every second of it today. I will forget today, but that doesn't mean that today didn't matter."

A worthy credo for any of us, I think.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

So... any good books this weekend to stay warm with?

Winter color

"The color, we say, is gone, remembering vivid October and verdant May. What we really mean is that the spectacular color has passed and we now have the quiet tones of Winter around us, the browns, the tans, a narrower range of greens, with only an occasional accent in the lingering Winter berries. But the color isn't really gone.

The meadow is sere tan, but that is a tan of a dozen different shades from gold to russet. The fallen leaves have been leached of their reds and yellows, but theirs is no monotone by any means. The bronze curve of the goldenrod stem emphasizes the ruddy exclamation point of the cattail. The rough brown bark of the oak makes the trunk of the sugar maple appear armored in rusty iron. The thorny stalk of the thistle stands beside the cinnamon seed head of the pungent bee balm. Dark eyes stare from the white parentheses of the stark birches, bronze tufts of one-winged seeds tassel the box elder, miniature "cones" adorn the black-brown alders at the swamp's edge.

In the woods, the insistent green of Christmas fern and partridgeberry leaf compete with the creeping ancients, ground cedar and running pine. Hemlock, spruce and pine trees cling to their own shades of green, individual as the trees themselves. And on their trunks are paint patches of the ancient lichen, tan and red and blue and green, like faint reflections of vanished floral color.

The color is still there, though its spectrum has somewhat narrowed. Perhaps it takes a Winter eye to see it, an eye that can forget October and not yearn for May too soon."

-Hal Borland, Sundial of the Seasons

(still my favorite book in the world!)

I love the way this author makes me stop to notice or puts a name to the things that grab my attention. Always there's something to learn from Borland's observations.

Anyway...

Anyone recognize the flower in this pic?

Song of the wave

I'm about climbing the walls with it getting dark so early and having so little time outdoors most days.

I'm so bored I'm actually cooking!

;-)

And I'm reading some, which is nice to have the time for again. This evening I re-read my tattered copy of Khalil Gibran's The Prophet... which I first read back in high school. There's an essay of his about gardening that I've been searching for, and haven't yet found, but I did come across this beautiful poem by him online and thought I'd share it...

The strong shore is my beloved
And I am his sweetheart.
We are at last united by love, and
Then the moon draws me from him.
I go to him in haste and depart
Reluctantly, with many
Little farewells.

I steal swiftly from behind the
Blue horizon to cast the silver of
My foam upon the gold of his sand, and
We blend in melted brilliance.

I quench his thirst and submerge his
Heart; he softens my voice and subdues
My temper.
At dawn I recite the rules of love upon
His ears, and he embraces me longingly.

At eventide I sing to him the song of
Hope, and then print smooth hisses upon
His face; I am swift and fearful, but he
Is quiet, patient, and thoughtful. His
Broad bosom soothes my restlessness.

As the tide comes we caress each other,
When it withdraws, I drop to his feet in
Prayer.

Many times have I danced around mermaids
As they rose from the depths and rested
Upon my crest to watch the stars;
Many times have I heard lovers complain
Of their smallness, and I helped them to sigh.

Many times have I teased the great rocks
And fondled them with a smile, but never
Have I received laughter from them;
Many times have I lifted drowning souls
And carried them tenderly to my beloved
Shore. He gives them strength as he
Takes mine.

Many times have I stolen gems from the
Depths and presented them to my beloved
Shore. He takes them in silence, but still
I give fro he welcomes me ever.

In the heaviness of night, when all
Creatures seek the ghost of Slumber, I
Sit up, singing at one time and sighing
At another. I am awake always.

Alas! Sleeplessness has weakened me!
But I am a lover, and the truth of love
Is strong.
I may be weary, but I shall never die.

--Khalil Gibran

There's something that happens about midway through this poem that causes me to laugh quietly... I'm not really sure what it is, but I love the smile it brings to my face.

Know bones?

Out at Sandy Hook the other day, among the clamshells and bits of drift washed ashore, we found this part of a skull that I imagine belonged to a bird. It's a duck's bill, I think.

I'm not really even sure which way is up, but the bottom (pictured, I think) has an interesting texture, almost coral-like, that I imagine has happened since the bill was attached to anything living.

I checked in my Bird Tracks and Sign book, which has a section on skulls, but didn't find anything to help me beyond the guess that it's a duck's bill.

Anyone know of a good online reference?

A coffee story

I read the sweetest little book by Julia Alvarez yesterday evening... A Cafecito Story: A Story of Love, Coffee, Birds, and Hope.

;-)

My coworker Linda, mi pana, is from the Dominican Republic and has been trying to sell me on Julia Alvarez for months. Mostly she writes something like historical fiction that spans the divide between her childhood in DR and her adult life here in the US. I enjoy the poetic way she often writes and this little book suited my short attention span of late.

It tells the story of one man's love affair with a good cup of coffee and how the challenge of growing coffee under the shade of trees, where songbirds come to sing over the ripening coffee beans, ultimately inspires an organic shade-grown coffee company and a community. Cafe Alta Gracia is the name of that company and their coffee is available for sale through the Vermont Coffee Company.

Anyone tried it or have a favorite to recommend?

Bowman's Hill

I finally made it to Bowman's Hill Wildflower Preserve in Pennsylvania last Saturday. It's a short drive and a world away! This time of year is all about spring ephemerals and the wildflowers there were putting on a nice show.

There were a few wildflowers that I haven't been able to find in my haunts of the local woods, plus the more common ones were there in abundance. It was a real treat to see a path through the woods bursting with Virginia Bluebells, Spring Beauties, Trillium and Trout Lillies. The preserve is smallish and the trails are short, but there was enough diversity, even this early in the season, to keep me occupied for a couple hours. It's the kind of place I can see myself visiting again and again, just to see what's in bloom each week.

There's a bookshop filled with goodies for the nature dork in me and I bought a great book I'd like to recommend - The Secrets of Wildflowers: A Delightful Feast of Little-Known Facts, Folklore, and History by Jack Sanders. I imagine I'll make use of its bits of folklore and poetry often here in my blog.

This pretty flower was a new one to me: Early Saxifrage. It likes to grow in cool rocky places that are wet in the springtime. I found it growing all along the little creek that meandered along the Marsh Marigold Trail. Its flowers are tiny, tinier even than spring beauties. Very dainty and sweet!

The world's worst dog

No... not Luka!

I finally sat still long enough to watch "Marley and Me". What a sweet movie. Most of Marley's antics felt very familiar, as I imagine they would to any owner of a Labrador.

I'd read the book years ago when it first came out and I think this is one instance where I enjoyed the movie more than the book.

Just don't watch the end.

Questions we didn't know we wanted to ask

I don't think I've mentioned that I've not been teaching for the last year or so. I miss my students at the community college, miss their stories, miss the chance to work so closely with a small group of (almost) eager learners.

I was digging around in the attic the other day and came across a lesson I'd liked to use in the mid-point of the semester on questioning techniques. It's something we readers do automatically; question as we read, but it's a skill that less-seasoned readers need help with.

I've always been a questioner; not ever satisfied with the surface answer, always intent on whatever lies beneath. I'm sure that as a child this drove the adults in my life half-nuts, and I know it drives my present-day students to distraction. I'm not the type of teacher who returns papers with plain check marks in the margins or terse comments in red ink; instead I've always hoped for my students to think a bit deeper and tend to ask questions that make them consider another viewpoint or angle... prodding at their laziness or inattentiveness. I like the chance to dangle speculation before them, or even wonder.

Imagine that! Wonder in the classroom!

So... while the course I teach is one of reading strategies, the writer in me tries to give back some of the kind of questioning that continues to be crucial to my own growth, as a writer (!) and as a person. I like to introduce the idea of questioning and speculation with the use of Pablo Neruda's Book of Questions, wherein the poet asks a series of questions, without ever really caring if a response is likely, or even possible. Neruda's questions invoke vivid images and tend to demonstrate a unique way of seeing and questioning... just as an example or two:

Why do the leaves kill themselves
as soon as they turn yellow?

How do the seasons discover
it's time to change their shirts?

Some of the things I work on with my students during discussion are:

Which is more important: the question or the answer?
Which is more powerful?
Do all questions have answers? Is there only one right one?
Do we all ask the same questions? In the same way?

A part of what I'm hoping my students will discover with this exercise is that we all have a unique perspective and this *stance* is important to consider in our writing as well as in our reading of other authors.

My favorite part of the lesson is giving students the time to come up with their own questions, using Neruda's as a model. There's a fair amount of imitation, but the whimsy is palpable and fun! I encourage them to be playful with language and subject matter, like Neruda. Nothing is exempt from wonder, right?

Some favorites:

How come people say the moon is made of cheese and not waffles, for example?
Why do flowers bloom out and not in?
Who do we make mistakes?
How come there are more girls than boys in the world?
Where does Jimmy Buffet get his songs?
Why do cookies disappear faster when you're not the one eating them?

;-)

I love that last one!

Of course you know to expect this, but...

;-)

What questions are you just dying to have answered?

What would you ask if no one dared laugh at your silly question?

4, 5

I wish that I could report better than minor progress at #4 and 5 on this list, but the fact is that I'm just manipulating my own silly rules.

So while I don't recall buying any new books lately, there were a couple Christmas gifts.

And I've been making liberal use of the local library.

Gone are the days when I could immerse myself in one book at a time. I'm not sure why, but I can't seem to find the time to concentrate fully enough. So I've been reading light or hopscotching from book to book, mixing up plots and characters. Adds to the fun, maybe.

In the last couple days I finished:

Letters to Sam: A Grandfather's Lessons on Love, Loss, and the Gifts of Life by Daniel Gottlieb
Gift of the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Living on the Edge of the World: NJ Writers Take on the Garden State

I'm partway through these:

Twelve Moons of the Year by Hal Borland
A Book of Days by Hal Borland
Seasons by Hal Borland
The Gate House by Nelson DeMille
Stiff by Mary Roach
The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch
Duma Key by Stephen King
Plant Seed, Pull Weed: Nurturing the Garden of Your Life by Geri Larkin
Doodles and Daydreams: Your Passport for Becoming an Escape Artist by Bill Zimmerman - a Christmas gift to myself!
The Essential Rumi translated by Coleman Barks - another Christmas gift to me!
The Poetry Home Repair Manual by Ted Kooser - I've been reading this one since early June, I think, trying to make the fun last.

I won't mention the books that remain untouched on the *to be read* pile. But it is getting smaller - honest!

So... what have you read lately that's any good? Want to add to one of my lists?

;-)

September's Certainties

There are the certainties of September, a month by grace of the calendar but a season by its own insistence. Now comes the time of pause and slow transition, a time neither new nor old, growth nor completion. Summer nor Autumn.

There is the certainty of fire in the maples, now evident in the coals and brands of the sumacs. The coinage of October is now being minted in the elms, and the ripeness of the grape is forecast in the big New England asters, purple as amethysts. The certainty of Indian Summer's mists is there in the thistedown and the finespun silk of the milkweed. The frosts to come are foreshadowed in the froth of small white asters at every roadside.

The crows now know the certainty of their own tenure and proclaim it loudly. The jays no longer make any secret of their presence or their coming inheritance. The cricket and the katydid tell the darkness the certainty of time and its implacable demands. The whippoorwill and the owl exchange confidence in the night, reluctant companions in the slowly shifting eternity of starlight.

There is the certainty of sun and evening light, which mark the time of change in the breadth of a shadow, the depth of dawn and dusk. Two more weeks and the compass can set its needle by the morning sun. Yesterday's new moon will wax toward the fullness that will double the certainty of the equinox.

September makes its own commitments, abides by its own inevitabilities in the decisions of time.

--Hal Borland, Sundial of the Seasons

If I were to make a short-list of favorite nature writers, Hal Borland would probably be at the top of it. I love the way his writing so often sounds like poetry, yet gently teaches me things about astronomy and botany and phenology.

Do you have a favorite nature writer? Can we share short-lists?

;-)

Skywatch Friday

You have to know how to look at this country. You have to slow down. It isn't pretty, but it's beautiful.
--Kent Haruf in West of Last Chance

In the weeks before I went to North Dakota in June, I spoke to a couple people out there and the weather always came up in conversation, mainly the hope for rain to "green things up some." Green it was, but every so often we'd come across a view like this of a pale ocean of prairie grass laid out to the horizon. More often than not there weren't any trees to mark the edge of vision, the sky and clouds a kaleidoscope of moods, the play of sunlight on the land the only thing to distinguish one moment from the next.

Visit here for more Skywatch posts.

Savage springtime

Every so often I like to play with a translation project I first started in college. Back then I was overly careful, I think, to stick closely to the original text. With multiple revisions and the fact that no one is grading me on this (!) I let myself have a bit more fun with the text at each visit. Others, from the same book and author, Ana Maria Matute, are here and here and here.

I don’t know who called springtime sweet. I remember running towards the forest, my brothers and I and our friends, barely smelling in the air its peculiar, unmistakable odor. We carried large Hazelwood sticks to open a path through the leaves; leaves as large as the palms of our hands. There was a narrow and shady path above the forest where a thick jungle of wildflowers bloomed. Tightly packed, tall among the shadows, grew these plants that reached as high as our chests and got tangled around our arms and legs. Our knees got wet, our feet were drowned in the caked-up mud, and I even seemed able to touch the moist, hot air.

The leaves of the wildflowers were an angry green and were bound together with tiny crystals of a recent snowfall. I liked to put them close to my cheek, like the hand of a friend. The flower was white and sinister, poisonous according to the shepherds; the tips of the petals stained scarlet like fingers soaked in blood. Because of our childish fanfare, we liked to bring the blossoms close to our lips and say,

“I’ll bite it!”

There was always some little one that ended up shouting while the bigger kids waited secretly, cruelly, fearing and wishing in our hearts for some strange and sudden death; needless and terrible in the middle of the overcast morning in the forest. There while the insects and the golden bees buzzed and you could hear the river at the base of the big gully, with the beetles flickering their mulberry wings against the metallic silver of their shells, among the high grasses on the path. The babysitter said that the most beautiful wildflowers held a mysterious poison for princes and stray children in the center of their suspiciously white petals. They shined like stars among the greenish-blue of the thick leaves, their surface polished and the underside dull like the skin of a peach. Someone – the country people, the shepherds, the servants, all the people of the world taught us to sing:

“Beautiful wildflower
Princess,
Deceive me, so white
Princess… “

I don’t remember how that little song ended, but I do know that it carried within a desire that was both sweet and painful. We went along singing it, shoulder to shoulder or in a line, as we emerged from the leaves and the giant ferns. Between the buzzing of the mosquitoes and the strange calls of birds, we asked, without understanding why,

“Deceive me…”

One day I got lost among the wildflowers. I don’t know that I was truly lost, but what is certain is that I was stretched out on the ground, almost buried among the wide leaves, the earth underneath my back drenched with water, little tiny stones digging into my shoulders and waist; very close to my eyes and lips was the poison of the evil princess flower. There was a dream in the thick air, in the shade of that blinding green. Up above, from time to time among the beech tree leaves, the sun appeared like gold, a true gold like a trophy. It took them a while to find me and once they did, they punished me. Later, they thought I was sick. I don’t know if I was, but I got a dose of the poison, the intense wildflower poison, and it rang in my ears for a long time like a bee.

In this urbane springtime, behind the mud walls of the gardens, perhaps a fleeting scent blooms on the wind, like a seed. This is no longer the savage springtime. No longer does it feign that unbearably beautiful and sweet poison, no longer does it sweetly ask, “Deceive me…”

The photo is not an evil princess flower (g) ... just a windflower from the garden.