The apricot iris always makes us wait until the others are almost finished blooming.
This morning it finally fully revealed itself. Looking beyond
I see the first violet vinca bloom on this side of the fence.
And there the white chair I watch ducks from.
Burley has spread dark brown mulch where the weeds were.
It's a lovely season; I almost never think about politics here.
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
Walt Whitman
In these wired and wireless times, it is easy to forget about the parents of American poetry, Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson. Here is a reminder, especially to myself.
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