Inniswood Metro Gardens
“The earth has music for those who listen.”-George Santayana
“I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.”-Edna St. Vincent Millay
Whenever I hike through the 733 acres of our local cemetery, I have to stifle the compulsion to declaim poetry to an audience of tombstones, trees, and birds. Instead, I turn the words inward, or whisper them under my breath. The shadow-poets I prefer change with the seasons. If winter’s sharp, cold, stinging reach is perfect for Sylvia Plath, then the gloriously still warmth of spring is the natural home for the distilled, profound and subtle Emily Dickinson.
*“Nature” is what we see” is the opening line from an Emily Dickinson poem.
“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.”-Henri Matisse
Although hundreds of trees spread across the distant horizon like ink blots, the park adjacent to my flat is the only true green spot in this industrial neighborhood.
I’m partial to the rust and dust and accumulated dirt, the graffiti and old buildings that litter the CW. The flowers are bright and perky, but they’ll die in service to the coming season. I like the good bones of the stone and brick structures, even if the edges are crumbly. They last, even if they are a bit shabby.
*I will be the gladdest thing/Under the sun!/I will touch a hundred flowers/And not pick one”-Edna St. Vincent Millay, Afternoon on a Hill
I work at a gallery. Downtown, part-time. I manage the company-wide blog, answer random questions about grammar, dole out directions to places I have never been, and sell artsy things. If you lack the ability to visualize how artwork should be framed, I will come to the rescue with the perfect design. My eye is better than yours, anyway.
The postal worker assigned to our route is fantastically nice and funny. He slathers it on a bit thick at times, but is unfailingly amusing. He also has the solid recommendation of being a playwright.
We did not have any incoming mail today. This was the only delivery.
Every day, the mailman gives one customer a rose. Continue reading
I spied these flowers last week while out walking in my mother’s urban neighborhood. The fence and the jailed flowers it guards belong to a sorority house.