Eucomis Aloha Lily

Pineapple Lily, Pineapple Flower 'Leia

The leaves at the tip of the raceme give the impression of a pineapple, however, they belong to the lily family. They make great cut flowers.

Autumn

I heard today, that middle age women are the most invisible group in our American society. Kinda like we don't live here. I am still here. Many say, we do everything necessary for society to remain livable but otherwise, we don't exist.
We are the strongest group behind another middle age woman. We need to talk...although, we do, in large numbers.



To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;


To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skie

John Keats

Site of Wonder

Things that shouldn't bee, and places where our reality glitches ever so slightly.

Marvel at Helen Ahpornsiri's amazing art made from pressed ferns.


http://helenahpornsiri.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/H.AhpornsiriLittleBee.jpg



http://imaginingscienceart.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/unconventional-plant-froms-part-4-helen.html

Ashtag wednesday

Dust to dust this is a you tube link to experiments on how much of life I do not understand. Kinda long so get some tea and honey.

I finished reading last night The Secret Teachings of Plants by Stephen Harrod Buhner. A buddy sent me this link to two of his podcasts.
http://www.podcastalley.com/podcast_details.php?pod_id=19979&allEpisodes=

Nice listen.
They are the 26 and 27 listing down the page, look for
Lost Language of Plants and the Perceptive Heart

When we rendered the heart as nothing more than a pump

we essentially colonized the soul or spirit of ourselves as rather lifeless.

How much of life am I missing?
breathe in




what plants are you drawn toward?
mango
the mango tree is telling me about myself:
the familiar warmth of the one beside you, wearing the same old worn pjs, can awaken a heart of deep tenderness.

what spontaneous feeling does your plant draw out in you image wise?

the good old days when milk was delivered to our back door and the time the paper cap rose up out of the bottle on a column of cream because it was so cold.




does that image tell you about your self?
i won't be able to exit life the way we exited the movie theater, holding hands and wondering where we parked the car.

how do we feel better?
by walking and not letting my mind perspire.

what happens when we come to our senses?
silence can be eloquent

The mango and I are more than the sum of our parts.
we both can block out the prattle and stand tall in our solitude sanctuaries.
diminishing strength and health dictated the change in our lives...and both of us are surviving our transplants
settling our roots deep into the new soil
we not only survive but bloom again.

Wendell Berry's poem
To Tanya at Christmas

together here two trees

whose lives in annual sheddings

made their way into this ground
whose bodies turn to earth
and song.


The song will tell
how old love sweetens the fields

Waking up to sweetness!
future grapefruit
here is juicy sweetness valenicia



the honey begins here

Interesting to have participant parent perspectives. Thanks for both of you sharing.

do any of you hate the feeling of only a few pages remaining between the fingers of your right hand when You are loving a book?   Knowing I have something tempting waiting helps. What do you have on your table waiting? I have the Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje. My grandfather had a cat's table. My grandfather critic exclaimed my aluminum sculpture looked like the pedal to a urinal. I painted him white birch trees for his birthday.