MindSpinner

Emily Dickinson’s poems enchant me over and over because they are enacted on any summer’s day in any garden. A Robin still comes down the walk, an unlucky worm in its beak; bees still plunder blossoms. This particular poem just makes me happy, and so did spending an hour in the garden with the camera, capturing what I otherwise might not look closely enough to see. Both poem and garden bespeak faith in continuity, in life and its rituals that long outlast poets and gardeners.

Bees are Black, with Gilt Surcingles –
Buccaneers of Buzz.
Ride abroad in ostentation
And subsist on Fuzz.

Fuzz ordained — not Fuzz contingent –
Marrows of the Hill.
Jugs — a Universe’s fracture
Could not jar or spill.