Overcoming Bloglessness

Daffodils

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Daily Prompt: Lookin’ Out My Back Door.
Look out your back window or door — describe what you see, as if you were trying to convey the scene to someone from another country or planet.

Daffodils

There’s not much color here in early spring; not like back home where yards are gaudy and lush by now. The backyard here is all brown fence and grey rock with just a bit of green beginning to show in the lawn. Three raised beds are barren, but for the stickery raspberry canes and their supports. Firewood is stacked neatly along the fence and the fire pit holds two large logs, ready to light on a starlit night. Dad’s battered old wheelbarrow and our new one stand idle together, propped up against the shed where the canoe hangs, waiting. You might see a flash of bluebird or a red breasted robin splashing in the birdbath, but nothing’s blooming yet. Nothing. So I bought daffodils.

024 (4)

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed–and gazed–but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

by William Wordsworth

 


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Daily Prompt: Unleash Your Inner Dickinson

Daily Prompt: Unleash Your Inner Dickinson.

Cheers!

You’re asking me to write a rhyme,

as if I have that kind of time,

as if a poet writes like that,

on demand,

two seconds flat.

These things take time

and pondering.

It could take years

of wandering

and suffering,

to make it real,

is not a thing I care to feel.

I’ll write a rhyme

another time.

For now,

I’m busy

drinking wine.