Sunday, July 5, 2009


A tiny pool in the forest, where the cotton-grass grows.
I would love to sit here with you, bringing back childhood memories, that have turned cotton-candy.

That was not was not what i was going to say. And neither about my ability to recall the names of all the flowers, which is not very good.

Seeing my favorite orchid this morning,

i was wondering; how does a tiny flower like that, gone and what's left underground, frozen for the most part of the year. How does it come back basically the same as last year? How does it remember; where to put it's purple spots, its tackiness attracting me, does it stick out its tongue at me?
Its memory perfect unlike mine.

That made me think of the whole cycle in nature. Its not one winter it remembers. In Holland i saw a luscious yellow border along a canal. Nobody planted it there. apparently it all came up because the dirt was disturbed or pulled out from the canal bottom. Next year other plants will take over. But there where the seeds, having waited for many years for being exposed

Her we have the fire weed that is first to come up after a fire, willows then poplar
many years later it is a spruce forest. and i am no biologist, but the old forest might turn into a bog.
Where... the orchid remembers to grow.

Thinking this all (nothing wrong with my brain conjuring up things)
I figured i need a picture of fireweed

The fire weed patch (in a recently burned area) full of bees and butterflies

I have been wishing (nothing wrong with my ability to fantasize) for a picture like that. Don't ask me its exact name. It is a Blue.
(thank goodness for people having named it, and recorded it, so i can find out (again:)


Anonymous said...

your orchid
it is a bauty
does it stick out its tongue at me?
no, or maby???

het was mooi hé, die geel bloeiende kool soorten
een kadootje voor jou
een herinnering aan Holland

greatings me

aria said...

what a colours!
like it's never been winter before!

christopher said...

What wonderful words and pictures.

Orchids And Butterflies

I sit here in gray
aftermath to the heat wave,
faded heat and sky.
I listen to new
music while thinking of you
in your own summer
made of northern lights
and the urgent rhymed display,
orchids, butterflies.