Jane Spavold Tims's Blog, page 32

Waiting for wild life to pass by

Back in our Grey Woods is a tiny ‘park’. Just an area I try to keep clean of dead-falls. Years ago, my Mom loved this little area. She found ‘ghost pipe’, also called ‘Indian pipe’ (Monotropa uniflora), growing there. These are parasitic plants without chlorophyll. They are small, less than 20 cm high. The ‘pipe’ is an excellent descriptor since a plant consists of a nodding head on a slender stem.

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My Mom tried to protect these uncommon plants from trampling by putting shingles in the ground to mark the location.

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The ghost pipes no longer grow there. The shingles have rotted and disappeared. Change is inevitable and in this little park, change is likely related to nutrient conditions. My Mom is also gone but I keep the little park to remember the day she tried to save the ghost pipe.

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One addition I made to the area is a small bird feeder. I installed the feeder on an old red maple tree. The feeder is painted iron, moulded in the form of Saint Francis of Assisi. Saint Francis lived in Italy at the turn of the thirteenth century and is known for his love of animals and the natural environment. He believed nature was the mirror of God and the animals were his brothers and sisters. He even preached to the birds (Source: Wikipedia).

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ghost pipe

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in grey woods

Saint Francis

cast in iron

watches wild

life pass by

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red squirrel

ceaseless motion

white-tailed deer

pauses, listens

a chipmunk

runs the log

fallen tree

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time also

passes by

Aralia

and bracken

replace white

ghost pipe, once

grew here, all

nature a mirror

of our lives

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All my best,

Jane

A place to be still

I love to be outside but my knees do not always cooperate. So, I make certain I have a place to sit on my walk-about. I love my concrete bench. I get a great view of the yard. In spring there are crocuses. At this time of year, a huge patch of sensitive fern. In fall there will be red maple leaves. But the bench is cold. Not a place to sit for long! Not a place to linger.

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A place to be still

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Cold concrete,

embedded, still,

where leaves

of purple crocus

press through turf,

sensitive fern

overtakes lawn,

autumn builds

layer on layer.

Cold concrete,

embedded, still.

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All my best,

Jane

Birdbath

Our copper birdbath includes a silver-coloured metal bird, in case no real birds come to call. In the shade of the maple tree the water shimmers. But the little silver bird never flutters, not even a feather.

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birdbath

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embedded in dapple

edge of copper

silver bird never moves

never flutters a feather

never pecks a sparkle

from crystal water

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bird with heartbeat

and dusty wing-feathers

lands for a bath

sputters and splashes

chooses to ignore

immobile effigy

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All my best,

Jane

faerie, one wing, frowns

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faerie, one wing

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frowns at the hesitant

fluff of feathers

perched on her finger

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this creature has

two wings,

can fly

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wonders where

verdigris

and copper

wingtip

flew to ?

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stands

in a blue and green

periwinkle sea

and, earthbound,

scowls

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All my best,

Jane

 

 

book festival and fair

This weekend, I will be part of the Metro Moncton Book Festival, a great event for all booklovers! Just have a look at all the authors who will be there with their books.

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I will be there with all my books. All my books are illustrated so you can have a look at some of my artwork too.

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Are you interested in edible wild plants? Do you love covered bridges?

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Do you love science fiction or a good love story?

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If you are the Moncton area, I hope to see you there!

All my best,

Jane

Butterfly Etude

I have not played the piano for years. Not a great tragedy as I was never very good and playing made me nervous, afraid to fail. But there are some bits of music I will know forever because I learned to play them. One is Chopin’s Butterfly Etude (Etude Opus 25, no. 9). A difficult piece, full of octave stretches and staccatos. And it perfectly captures the erratic whim-of-the-wind flight of most butterflies.

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Etude Opus 25, No. 9

Chopin’s Butterfly Etude

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cloud to clover

graceless flight path

earth to sky

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wrist staccato

octave stretches

disarticulated flight

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flirt and quiver

tip and stumble

clouded sulphur

butterfly

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all my best,

Jane 

what would a home look like on a fictional planet?

You may not be aware – I keep two blogs, one to consider subjects about real places and one to explore my ideas about science-fiction. If you are interested, click on over to www.offplanet.blog. This week’s post is about the homes the characters use in my planet Meniscus stories. You wouldn’t trade your home for any of these! Lots of illustrations too!

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Best wishes!

Jane

rafting event – what to carry when you leave home

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A few years ago, I was thinking of writing a series of poems about plant pollination and dispersal. It seemed a great idea. Poems about bumble bees and butterflies, ultra-violet landing strips and hummingbirds. Poems about burr baskets, rafting events, maple samara and dandelion parachutists. I wrote the poem below and found it so depressing, I abandoned the project. Now, as I sort through my library and wonder which books to keep, the poem seems appropriate.

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rafting event – a type of biological dispersal that occurs when terrestrial organisms transfer from one land mass to another by way of a water crossing. Often this occurs via large rafts of floating vegetation, sometimes seen floating down major rivers in the tropics and washing out to sea, occasionally with animals trapped on them.  (Source Wikipedia)

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rafting event

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Let the door handle slip

from your hand, leave

the home you’ve tried to know.

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Behind a deadpan face, dry tears

and palpitations, carry knowledge

away on a frail raft.

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Peterson Field Guides and Salinger,

a poem by Shelley,

three Shakespearean sonnets.

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They cling to the raft, these bits

of memory, rely on slippery

fronds of rough-glued vegetation.

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Recalled when someone asks

the writers you prefer or claim to have read.

You say, ‘the collected works of Heaney’.

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And is there an island where

new roots can catch and old seeds germinate?

The choice – survival or well-read.

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Hear the hinges do their work –

the dead bolt slips into the lock,

last home you will ever know.

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Copyright 2018

Jane Tims

butterfly

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butterfly

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scrap of paper

plucked from my hand

wind a tease

always one wing beat

beyond the finger tip

attempts to read

its delicate code

of dots

and dashes

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a yellow Post-it note

folded on the tower

of a blue sky cornflower

a tatter

a musical note

set to the panic

of butterfly flight

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a curtsy and away

across the field

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pursued by a butterfly net

and a killing jar

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Copyright Jane Spavold Tims 2018

 

Safe place for a nest

No surprise to me … a robin has built a nest in the eaves of our house. Eighteen feet above the ground, this is a safe place for a nest. The robin does not think so. When I sit on the deck for my daily cup of tea, the robin sits in a near-by tree and scolds me. He gives a single annoyed chirp. If a robin could scowl, he is certainly scowling.

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