I’ve lived much, perhaps even *most* of my life in old houses. With the exception of late middle and high school, 3/4 of college, briefly in Santa Fe (1996-9), and briefly in Paris and Rome, my homes have been within old houses. And, come to think of it, some of my boarding school years were in old homes too. And yet each new home was revitalized — and revitalizing — when it became my personal (or familial) residential oasis. Old house, new home.
Hyde Gate, Essex, New York (Illustration by Kate Boesser for All My Houses, By Sally Lesh)
With Rosslyn becoming our place of residence, starting in 2006 and fully by 2008, this old house, new home combination took on new levels of significance. The oldness of the house wasn’t just evident in the architecture and design, the building materials and dated/failing mechanicals, and the time-earned gravity that many enduring old buildings exude. All of these were in evidence with Rosslyn, for sure. But there was something more.
Rosslyn’s history included a notable human legacy: lives lived and recorded; stories told and retold; images made, circulated, and collected. Rosslyn’s backstory as a prominent presence along Merchants Row; built by one of the two founding families in Essex; plus the iconic boathouse attracting the eyes of generations of photographers, artists, travelers; the years spent as a local enterprise (restaurant and watering hole, vacation accommodation, and boating regatta hub); and well documented home and preservation subject of George McNulty who helped catalyze Essex’s recognition in the historic register;… Rosslyn was an old house, new home with an outsized history. This was new to Susan and me.
The questions. The advice. The judgement. The memories and stories and artifacts. The responsibility. The stewardship. The pride… It’s been an adjustment. A learning curve. A deeply formative journey. A privilege.
Once upon a time this handsome old house became our new home, and along with it almost two hundred years of backstory, lives, styles, and lifestyles. I try to gather into a basket or a tapestry, a moving picture or a singalong, the colorful threads, the adventures, and the text textured tunes.
Did Punxsutawney Phil see his shadow? Is spring around the corner? Are we headed into six more weeks of winter?
In this high tech era of satellites forecasting weather from beyond the beyond, intricate algorithms gobbling gargantuan data sets, and media channels dedicated to analyzing and communicating meteorological mysteries in real time, we still get excited on February 2 to see how a groundhog will react to brisk midwinter conditions. It’s folksy fun, I suppose. Maybe a result of cabin fever…
Today the furry fellow decided it was wiser to double down on hibernation. Spring’s still a long way off, at least in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania.
To be sure, Essex isn’t exactly tropical compared to Punxsutawney, so a belated de-wintering would seem inevitable based upon this morning’s proceedings. But, I’m pro-spring, even if that puts me in disagreement with Phil.
Unlike the groundhog,
fur ruffed against shadowed chill,
I suspect springtime.
I love springtime almost as much as I love morning, and for similar reasons. So much possibility in both reawakenings!
And who’s to say that haikupoetry is any less indicative of spring’s arrival than a groundhog coddled by top hatted members of the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club gathering at Gobbler’s Knob? Not I. (Which begs the question, what *else* do marmots and micropoems have in common?)
What to make of an annual tradition centering around a groundhog venturing out of hibernation to prognosticate on the coming season? Let’s dig into the legend of Punxsutawney Phil.
Each February 2, on Groundhog Day, the members of the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club make the pilgrimage to Gobbler’s Knob, Phil’s official home.
The group waits for Phil to leave his burrow and, legend has it, if he sees his shadow we’re in for six more weeks of winter. If he doesn’t, we get to bask in an early spring.
Scientifically speaking, winter will officially come to an end on the equinox on March 20, regardless of what Phil predicts. But Mother Nature doesn’t always follow the timetable, and neither does Phil.
Though Phil has no meteorology degree, every year the United States tunes in for his prediction.
Phil’s track record is not perfect. “On average, Phil has gotten it right 40% of the time over the past 10 years,” according to the National Centers for Environmental Information, a division of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration… (Source: CNN)
So, the meteorological marmot’s not the best indicator of whether or not winter will yield early/late to spring.
This year marks the third straight year the groundhog spotted his shadow, something that he has often done since making his first prediction in 1887. Of the 127 recorded times Phil has predicted the weather, he has now seen his shadow 107 (84%) times. His longest streak of seeing his shadow remains at 31, when he saw it every year from 1903-33.
It’ll take some time to figure out if Phil’s prediction will be right, but given his history, he’s likely wrong. (Source: USA Today)
But math be damned! There’s a whimsical charm surrounding the event. Seasonality keeps us in sync with our environment, wondering and wandering about nature, so the meter-marmot’s sub 50/50 track record isn’t really the point.
To better understand the popularity of Groundhog Day, Troy Harman (Penn State University history professor and Gettysburg National Military Park ranger) talks left brain, right brain and the science-to-tradition spectrum.
“Throughout history, whenever there has been a real strong emphasis on science, its counterpart of intuition, instinct, emotion, imagination — the right side of our brain — pushes back a little bit,” Harman says, explaining that Groundhog Day took off right around the time of the industrial revolution.
He says those massive societal and technological changes spurred a desire to return to what people imagined were simpler times, in the form of things like literary romanticism and gothic revival architecture…
“I strongly suspect that the people that go to Gobbler’s Knob are fully aware of the power of science, but at the same time want to hold on to traditions and a deeper vibe,” he says. “There’s the instincts and the intuition and the imagination that every human being has that has to come into balance with logic and reason.” (Source: NPR)
It seems there’s plenty more to be said on this logic, reason, and science versus intuition, emotion, and imagination comparison, but this isn’t the time or place. And I think that Harman’s probably right. Trusting in science and logic, many/most of us still allow room for romantic traditions and intuition. It’s quite likely a part of what humanizes us.
So whether today’s shadow viewing gets chalked up on the wins side or the losses side of Punxsutawney Phil’s tally, we’re likely to see another six weeks on winter weather in Essex. Sure, there will be some balmy days when the mud oozes, but it’s a rare year that February and even much or March aren’t snowy or at least inclement. But we’re hoping this year to take advantage of the high tunnel to fast-track spring in the vegetable garden, so we just might stand a chance of realizing the optimism in my haiku!
In closing, you may be wondering what the difference is between a groundhog and a woodchuck. And what about a marmot?!?! Although the three names are often used interchangeably, the “marmot” is exactly the same as the other two. While a groundhog and a woodchuck are one and the same wildlife (taxonomically Marmota monax), the term “marmot” generally refers to the entire genus Marmota and/or the subgenus Marmota which includes the groundhog (aka woodchuck, whistlepig, monax, moonack, whistler, groundpig, etc.) Armed with that tidy tidbit of trivia you’re armed and dangerous for happy hour this evening. Cheers to Phil. Cheers to spring!
Daybreak: Lake Champlain sunrise through “wavy glass” in late August, summertime slipping through the hourglass. (Source: Geo Davis)
Since my earliest Rosslyn intrigue, wondering if the house and property might one day become a home for us, daybreak was my fixation. Perhaps it was just my lifelong affinity for early morning. As an early riser dawn has long been my favorite time of time, a world of possibility… Perhaps it was just curiosity what Rosslyn would feel like, look like, wandering room-to-room early in the morning. Although the front hallway was still in decidedly unfinished condition when we first visited, I imagined the walls painted a pale yellow, transporting the sunrise inside, warming the house with the brightening day.
Daybreak Discernment
This summer has been marked with singularly spectacular sunrises (and sunsets), and I’ve written much and often about these liminal states. This morning, however, catching sight of daybreak through wavy glass in the front parlor, I was struck concurrently with two thoughts.
The wave-rippled surface of Lake Champlain was refracting dawn’s beacon, distorting the beam of fiery orange sunlight into a row of burning “puddles” that wavy glass in the parlor windows was further altering into a dancing mirage. Searing reality transformed into a optical illusion. I was reminded that Rosslyn has often altered my way of seeing and experiencing.
These summer days are filtering faster and faster from anticipation to happening to memories. Just as the fleeting illusion of fiery puddles or bonfires or — pushing possibility to it’s breaking point — fiery cairns guided my eye to the rising sun, wobbling up out of Vermont’s Green Mountains like some hallucination, almost as quickly mellowing to a buttery yellow before vanishing altogether in the cloud bank above, just as quickly this summer is reaching its conclusion.
And these bittersweet realizations, as if coupling and procreating, gave birth to a daybreak haiku.
A window view early on a Sunday morning. A blazing daybreak. Wavy lake and wavy glass. Near, familiar silhouettes framing a veritable mirage. Dawn within. Dawn without.
Boathouse Bonfire, September 27, 2014 (Source: Geo Davis)
If September poems sound overly sentimental to you or if you’re inclined to a grittier observance of the almost-upon-us Autumn Equinox, I’ve got you covered. Soon. Stay tuned.
But if you’re comfortable lingering briefly — and these poems are, if nothing else, brief — in the seasonality and liminality of the present moment, then I’d like to offer you a few September poems. After all, sometimes the singing underneath doesn’t translate to images or longform exposition. So I’ve bundled a tidy bundle of verse celebrating my one of my four favorite seasons.
Susan in Carriage Barn, September 12, 2006 (Source: Geo Davis)
Haiku September Poems
Short and sweet, sometimes bittersweet, is the name of the game when trying to put your finger on something as poignant and humbling as the shift from summer to autumn (with the omnipresent reminder that autumn too will soon yield, and winter will shroud the colors and flavors and aromas away beneath a snowy blanket). But that can be an elusive errand.
There’s something ineffable about Septembering, but anyone who’s dwelled a spell in the North Country is familiar with this shift. (Source: Seasonality: Septembering)
Haiku’s economy offers a bold if foolhardy effort, so let’s start there.
•:•
Dusky zinnias,
harvest-ready to welcome
arriving houseguests.
— Geo Davis
•:•
Bountiful beans,
red-podded asparagus,
climbing the teepee.
— Geo Davis
•:•
Seasonal surreal:
autumnal art, alchemy,
tart transformation.
— Geo Davis
Sunset, September 6, 2015 (Source: Geo Davis)
Longer September Poem
I’m struck by the concurrently lavish spoils and humbling caution of September. In so many respects the bounty of an entire summer’s worth of gardening and orcharding comes due in September. Sure, we’ve been enjoying the gardens since May, but the this month full of contrasts is without doubt the most abundant harvest. And yet, even as we indulge to excess, the crisp nights and the sunlight’s increasingly anemic illumination remind us to prepare for winter.
When Septembering
honor abundance
as autumn will soon
yield to the drum roll
of hale and hoarfrost,
bitter wind, and snow.
— Geo Davis
This might be the first verse to a longer look at the point-counterpoint of this intoxicating yet sobering marvel of a month. It might also have reached its end. A little hibernation should help decide.
Cider Pressing, September 6, 2015 (Source: Geo Davis)
Sing-song Along
I’ve made no secret of the fact that this 2022 summer and autumn have been pivotal for Susan and for me. We’re surfing some seismic transformations in our lives, finally confronting inevitabilities and incongruities that have been evolving for a long time, and fortifying one another for significant choices and changes ahead. In all probability the liminal space we’re navigating underlies the vibrance and drama I’m noticing in everyday events. But I’m unable to disregard the rhymes, rituals, harmonies, and auspicious signs (cairns, buoys, vade mecums,…) as I immerse myself in the texture and artifacts of a decade and a half with Rosslyn, as Susan and I revise and remap and re-plot our next chapters.
So many friends and acquaintances have contributed to this new adventure we’re embarking on, often without even realizing it or intending to effect our trajectory. Influences have an uncanny habit of popping up at just the right time! And so I close this post with an invitation to you. We welcome you to join and participate in our quest. As fellow sojourners we’ll better bridge the valleys and better celebrate the lofty summits ahead. Grateful to be traveling together!
A Jeroboam of gratitude to Kasey McKenna and Karly McKenna for their exceptional accomplishment repainting the entrance hallway. It looks superb! The lighting in the picture above doesn’t do justice to the work in progress, nor now that repainting the entrance hallway is complete. Lighting was poor. And the intention was just a quick progress report. Ditto for this next photo.
But I’ll be snapping some additional photos soon, hopefully with dramatic morning light illuminating the front hallways downstairs and upstairs. Until then, here’s a quick video walkthrough.
Late last August I reflected on the morning light in the front hallway, shared a moody morning photo as well as this warming shot that I took July 8, 2019.
Morning Light, Front Hallway, July 8, 2019 (Source: Geo Davis)
The mood and energy of this photograph perfectly conveys the opening moments of the daydream that I relived countless times in [late 2004 through early 2006 during] the extended prologue to our acquisition of this home. Although the interior of Rosslyn’s front hallway was in decidedly rougher shape during our early visits to the house…, I imagined it looking — and even more importantly — feeling just like this. (Source: Morning Light, Front Hallway)
I accompanied the photos in the post with a haiku, falling back on my Pollyanna confidence that poetry somehow captures what words and lenses overlook.
Needless to say, I remain a believer in the poetics of place. The following excerpt follows from the same morning rumination.
When Susan and I decided on paint colors, I pushed for yellow. She wasn’t particularly keen. I no longer recollect what color she desired, but my yen for yellow was quite simply a yielding to this daydream. My imagination had confected a morning vibe that needed to be experienced in reality. Not a particularly compelling argument when horse trading with Susan over design decisions, but I ultimately prevailed. Trim we agreed on early throughout the house. Beach hardwood flooring, the period chandelier and wall mounted lighting, the rug, the art,… all of these were joint decisions. But the yellow walls remain a point of disagreement even now. In fact, we’re considering a change, and given her willingness to accommodate me for the better part of a decade and a half with faint yellow walls in both halls, I’m inclined to yield at last. (Source: Morning Light, Front Hallway)
And this brings us to the present. Or just before the present when I agreed that it was Susan’s turn to pick a new color since we’re overdue for repainting the entrance hallway.
Fast Forward to Monterey White
She sent me this list of preferred colors, carefully chosen to complement the color of the stair treads (Benjamin Moore‘s Clarksville Gray) that lead upstairs (as well as the hallway floor upstairs.)
Susan’s Benjamin Moore Sample List (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
She had agreed to meet me partway by allowing that the new color not be a complete departure from the pale yellow paint that had lived in my mind for a couple of years and on the walls of both the first and second floor hallways for the better part of a decade and a half. This list represents her compromise. So off to the paint store I went for samples.
Benjamin Moore Paint Samples (Photo: Geo Davis)
The next step was to paint some swatches onto the walls alongside the trim and the downstairs beech flooring.
Sample Paint Swatches for Entrance Hallway, 2023 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Although I’ve manage to crop out the flooring inadvertently, the swatches still capture the wide range in tones and hues. Here are the swatches on the mid-flooring landing, adjacent to the Clarksville Gray floor.
Sample Paint Swatches for Entrance Hallway, 2023 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Again, not the best photos, but you get the point.
It’s worth noting that there was general consensus around Monterey White which is second from the left on the upper row of swatches in the image above. It is the second from the right on the lower row in the preceding photo. You can see that it has some of the warmth of the yellow (albeit without much of the yellow and a generally grayer cast). Here it is in Benjamin Moore’s color chip, adjacent to the Clarksville Gray which we all agreed was an agreeable combination.
And the Winner is… Benjamin Moore’s Monterey White (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
In the video above, the finished paint job is in fact somewhat reminiscent of the old color. Granted, Pam shot the video on a gray day which and low light. The result emphasizes the gray hue. But several of us, upon watching the walkthrough, commented on how similar it appeared to the previous color.
A closer inspection during the cutting in process however captures the significant change.
Repainting Entrance Hallway with Benjamin Moore’s Monterey White (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
I look forward to watching the space fill with early morning sunshine soon. How much will it rekindle the nostalgic daydream? Or will it feel like the departure that Susan has long anticipated? I’ll share an update soon…
Such a curious commemoration of love and romance, right? Remember those grade school Valentine’s Day rituals? Awkward… Jumbled memories of cards, candies, and eventually flowers, as if we were being trained for love, for romance. Those microscopic messages on sugar hearts, so much made of the colors — pink and reds vs oranges, purples, and yellows — an early lesson in color consciousness that would prove to be as regimented in candies as in carnations and later roses. Color, we learned, is critical.
Balderdash.
Fortunately, a benevolent universe allowed these two star crossed lovers to collide in Rock Harbor more than two decades ago, and we’ve been challenging color codes (and virtually all other expectations) ever since.
And so today I offer you a slightly irreverent twist on the annual celebration of love and romance. Decidedly unsaccharine vignettes with moody hues and mysterious shadows. And a microscopic poem unlikely to be cribbed for schmalzy Valentine’s Day cards. And an Instagram reel celebrating my Valentine, my bride, my everything. L
Let’s break the rules together and make EVERY day Valentine’s Day. Let’s celebrate love. Let’s celebrate romance. Let’s celebrate.
Valentine’s Day (Photo: Geo Davis)
Valentine’s Day Haiku
Never buttercup, honey dumpling, sugar pie. Ever beloved.
My Valentine Mashup
I hope you enjoy this IG remix of snapshots (and a couple super short videos) of my funny valentine across the last 22 years. Ever beloved.
Verdigris patinated copper pot holding a coiled garden hose near carriage barn entrance.
A coiled garden hose, a verdigris copper pot, sunset puddling…
— Geo Davis
Some moments are captured best with wordy reflection, others with a watercolor. Sometimes a it takes a photograph or a lyric ode. But best of all is an instant, a glance, a gasp… The briefest of moments. The ellipses suggesting an interstitial moment.
This verdigris patinated copper pot concealing a coiled garden hose, warmed by a splash of setting sun offered itself up as a haiku. It was not my place to question or resist.
Hroth sent me the photograph above so that we could troubleshoot some subtle details for the old/new icehouse entrance and the relationship between the door and the still-to-come exterior landing. I think we’re 99% in sync, but we’ll hash out the details tomorrow so that we’re 100% in sync. In the meantime, I’m enchanted with this photo. The significant evidence of progress toward a new chapter in the life of Rosslyn’s icehouse. The new floor visible within. The shadowed but perceptible interior framing for windows and doors on the far western elevation. A through-view of the area west of the icehouse where lie the gardens and orchard, and where — on a less overcast day — the sun will set into Boquet Mountain a few tree lines beyond Rosslyn’s meadows and woods…
Entrancing Icehouse Entrance
Ever since 2006 when we removed the existing windows and closed up the gaping openings on the north and south elevations of the icehouse in order to re-stabilize the structural integrity of the building, this handsome edifice has been a shrouded utility building primarily employed for off-season storage of deck furniture, hammock stands, unused building materials, and almost decades’ worth of architectural salvage.
But the vision illuminating our rehab project is of a light filled space, a delicate balance between the finite volume of such a small structure and the uninhibited openness of vaulted ceilings and generous fenestration. Rosslyn’s icehouse is mid-journey between dark and constrained to light and open. It’s a transformation from merely functional to inviting, inspirational, invigorating, and multifunctional. A tall order? Perhaps. But the photo above suggests to me that we’re heading in the right direction.
Phoenix Rising: A Haiku
Auburn and umber, where embers are memories, phoenix from ashes. — Geo Davis
This micropoem draws upon the hues of the nearly century and a half old building, naked without siding, textured with time. And it associates these with earthen pigments and with the fading signs of fire. Ashes. Memories. On the one hand this photograph captures a moment on the quest for redemption. Rebirth as a new sort of utility building, relevant in the 21st century as opposed to an icehouse no longer fulfilling its original need. On the other hand, this photograph, as a tiny puzzle piece in my ongoing conversation and collaboration with Hroth, alludes to his still recent, still raw firsthand experience with the Calf Canyon/Hermit’s Peak blaze, the largest wildfire in New Mexico history.
Rising from the Ashes
I detect the energy of this post getting away from me. I intended to reflect briefly on Hroth’s photo, an aperture into the icehouse itself and into the vision for its future. But I feel the mounting wind pulling free the threads of my narrative. The focus is scattered and the motif is blurring.
A more entangled tale is untucking itself, fluttering and flapping, vying for attention. I understand that I can’t contain it forever, but I’d like — a little longer, at least — to discipline my post, my posts to march in a phalanx toward, well, toward the moment of truth. Or unraveling. Or arrival. Or departure.
I feel the azure dome spinning overhead, and the earth below. I realize I’ve been restraining this mythological force for months, for years. It surfaces and I acknowledge it, but then hasten on. Like a hummingbird or a butterfly lighting brightly, then buzzing on, fluttering on.
Here, for example.
Sometimes setbacks are actually the inspiration to regroup, reboot, and outperform original expectations. Sometimes fiasco fans the fires of triumph. Sometimes the phoenix rises from the ashes.
While our carpenter fiasco of the previous year might be summed up as a run-of-the-mill “crash and burn” story, this summer’s refreshing sequel was a quintessential “phoenix rising” story of mythic proportions.
Two fleeting mentions. And then this less oblique reference.
I’m hoping to eventually persuade Hroth Ottosen to share his very personal decision to roadtrip east from Santa Fe… after the 2022 catastrophic wildfire season that ravaged the southwest… Hroth reminds us that it is possible to emerge from calamitous circumstances braver, wiser, stronger, and freer than we were beforehand… Like I’ve already suggested, a phoenix rising from the ashes!
But now I’ll abbreviate this reference to Hroth, as the story is his to tell, if and when he’s ready. Instead let’s bring some semblance of closure to this curious clutch of field notes.
What Does Phoenix Rising Mean?
Without further muddling the message, I’ll step back and offer a sounder source.
To rise like a phoenix from the ashes means to emerge from a catastrophe stronger, smarter and more powerful. An example of rising like a phoenix from the ashes is someone who opens a new, successful business after his previous business has failed. Another example is someone who builds a new house after his previous house has been destroyed in a tornado.
Familiar? Here’s a look into the mythological origins of this familiar “born again” story.
The phoenix bird is a mythical bird from Greek mythology. It was a feathered creature of great size with talons and wings, its plumage radiant and beautiful. The phoenix lived for 500 years before it built its own funeral pyre, burst into flame, and died, consumed in its own fiery inferno. Soon after, the mythical creature rose out of the ashes, in a transformation from death to life…
Almost a decade ago I tried my first booze-free challenge. The sacrifice and discipline were minimal and the rewards were ample. So I repeated it the following year launching a welcome annual ritual. I eventually added a sugar fast to the yearly reboot, and having just wrapped up my 2023 alcohol and sugar detox, this weekend was an opportunity to celebrate.
Yesterday marked the conclusion of my 7th or 8th, maybe even my 9th “dry January”… For some sadomasochistic reason I’ve decided in recent years to add a sugar fast to alcohol abstention during the month of January, a timely recovery after the excesses of Thanksgiving-through-New Years… (Source: Midpoint Milestone: 6 Months Down, 6 Months to Go)
With January expired and my sugar fast goal achieved it was time to break the fast with a sugar binge. A maple sugar binge (see above) followed by an absurd daylong gorging on dark chocolate. Shameful! And divine.
Break Fast Haiku
Sugar free five weeks;
a maple syrup drizzled
pancake breaks the fast.
Sometimes it’s the simple things… Timely sweets. Maple syrup. Haiku. (Sometimes sugar cravings and poetry cravings go hand-in-hand!)
September Twangs, September 23, 2019, (Source: Geo Davis)
September Twangs Haiku
Early morning light in mid-late, late September twangs like a banjo.
Three years and two days ago, September 23, 2019, autumn light leapt the visual audio barrier shortly after sunrise. The moment, really a medley of moments, still resonates today. Cooling hues and crisper textures tickle nostalgia for fall foliage past, the sentimental tug of mornings, no, illuminations past, hollowed out, taught, ready to be plucked into song.
Lyric longing. Morning luminescence. The icehouse dormant just beyond the basswood tree so recently. Now awakening. Coming to life just as autumn twangs, summer exists, winter rehearses.
Falling Forward…
A month from now, as autumn achieve’s its most dramatic, most colorful climax, childish charm inevitably gives way to the inevitable arrival of winter. In “Autumn Vibes”, the exuberance and optimism that twangs in the haiku above still linger but are already fading, resolving into the sweep of seasonality. Seasons come. Seasons go…
Sugar maples ablaze between the orchard, gardens, and barns. What a season! Thanks, Pam, for capturing the autumn vibes from this fun vantage point in the nearest of Rosslyn’s meadows.
Although leaf peeping fiery fall foliage is inevitably and justifiably the cynosure this time of year, autumn vibes are aroused insubtler ways as well.
Ripe apples and pears in the orchard. Grapes trellised along the fence line. Blueberry bushes blushing crimson. Squirrels hustling acorns into their winter larders. Deer, emboldened, arcing easily over the fence to forage the gardens and orchard. Canada geese chattering south in protean Vs, settling onto the lake or into the fields for the night…
And this year we have a new ritual this year: re-covering the high tunnel after months of open air gardening. New scissor doors will make air circulation and cooling convenient in the coming weeks when daytime solar gain can still be significant. And with a hint of good fortune we may even extend our growing season later than in the past. New experiment. New territory. New optimism. And the always new but familiar autumn vibes of light frost followed by heavy frost — gentle warning followed by mortal barrage — whittle dramatically away at the vegetable garden’s viability. But with the high tunnel it just might look a bit different this year. We hope so.
Autumn Vibes Haiku
Early the ash turns, now maples and blueberries, succession of leaves. — Geo Davis
So recently I shared a still-ripening vision of autumn, similarly infused with lyric longing and luminescence, but less resigned, less resolved, perhaps less poignant. In “September Twangs” the micro poem wasn’t puerile, but it did sing with the intoxicating twang of exuberance and curiosity. The poem above, though a mere sliver of a season, nods to the inevitability of fall’s flourish fading. If the earlier haiku was a ginger, matinal perspective, a youthful perspective when autumn was just arriving, this October haiku is less twang and more the sound of fireworks fading. Perhaps a sonic boom echo-doppling into the forests and hills, perhaps a casdade of delicate cracklings decaying downward, twinkling sparks like celestial petals falling free of their blooms, bending toward gravity’s seductive beckon, then fluttering toward the placid lake’s watery mirror.
Sometimes it seems words can get in the way of our will and our wants. Often even. Sometimes words blur or over-focus or misrepresent… But they’re what we’ve got. And so it is that my morning words today, “Midwinter Mending”, endeavor to broadcast my will and want without blurring or over-focusing or misrepresenting. Allow, if you will, that these words are optimistic and matter-of-fact. An apt title for a tiny clutch of poetry that, like a seed perhaps, might germinate and flourish.
Midwinter Mending Haiku
A tiny building on Rosslyn’s waterfront. A tiny poem on a tiny moment like a threshold — midwinter, mid-repair — captured in a snapshot from a close friend. Probably a phone photo. A delicately distorted photo, watercolor-like in it’s impressionist abstraction, not altogether unlike stained glass that offers a fresh perspective on the familiar.
I hope that this haiku will fertilize the Rosslyn boathouse rehab, accelerating its already delayed completion before Lake Champlain’s winds and rising waters and, possibly soon, her ice begin to battle with the dock house. I hope…
