the falling rain
and the subtlety it implies
the water of life
nourishment
growth
cleansing
rebirth
grace
a bed of flowers blooming
the newness of spring
with explicit meaning
standing in the shadows
cold
wet
uncontrollable
not giving a damn
about our joy
or inconvenience
©A. D. Joyce, 2018
sunlight made him a legend:
photo flash upon his halo,
overexposed,
color faded by the glare,
face obscured—
one eye,
half a smile—
what’s left
is misted over
with radiance.
in awe,
we pour illusion like water
over his tired feet,
though to think,
only yesterday,
this same man
was a solid figure
in the darkness.
we could not see
but knew him then
by virtue of touching
with our hands.
©A. D. Joyce, 2018
the air is chastised and quiet
after the deluge
water in the street
hemorrhages into the gutter
dirt is pummeled into submission
forced to yield fruit and flowers
the sun wants to come out
but waits until it is safe
©A. D. Joyce, 2017
rain today, made me think of this song, beautiful lyrics
the waters of march (águas de março; excerpt)
a stick, a stone, it’s the end of the road
it’s the rest of a stump, it’s a little alone
it’s a sliver of glass, it is life, it’s the sun
it is night, it is death, it’s a trap, it’s a gunthe oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush
the knot in the wood, the song of a thrush
the will of the wind, a cliff, a fall
a scratch, a lump, it is nothing at allit’s the wind blowing free, it’s the end of the slope
it’s a beam, it’s a void, it’s a hunch, it’s a hope
and the river bank talks of the waters of march
it’s the end of the strain, it’s the joy in your heart ….
the rays of sunlight
blink on and off in the wind
a lake’s reflection
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
it’s a dirt road, see,
i’m standing in the middle of,
and if the dirt were water,
it would boil down to this:
i have 11 in one hand, I say,
and only one in the other,
so either i can keep 11
and get rid of one,
or else keep the one
and get rid of the 11.
but I don’t need any of them,
i say, so I put my two hands together
to make sure I have them all
but I don’t need them all.
so i lay them on the ground
and walk 12 paces from the pile
in a easterly direction,
then walk a perfect circle
around the pile
in a counterclockwise direction
until i reach the start of the circle,
then i walk to the middle.
i pick one from the pile,
and say, “I’ll take this one,”
then i put it back down
and pick another up and say,
“i want this one.”
then I put it down.
then i pick it up
then i put it down
then i pick it up
then i pick it up
then i put it down
then i put it down
and I say this will be a poem
and i say I’m just thinking out loud
and i say what am I going to do
and I say I’m doing it
Wassily Kandinsky. Several Circles. 1926. Oil on canvas. Via Olga’s Gallery
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
It was a rough winter here in New Jersey. It even was tough on my potted plants. To be fair, these are older plants that had grown big, and probably should have been redistributed and repotted some time ago. There might have been an issue with how frequently I watered them, but we won’t get into that.
Yuck
So I figured it was time to do something serious. Many of stems had grown long over the years but had lost a lot of the leaves. So I cut them off the main plant into shorter segments.
Cuttings
I put them in water so they can grow new roots.
Ahhhh!
I threw away the old roots, many of which were attached to nearly leafless stems, coiled in the dirt they had been feeding off for years.
Useless
I’m waiting for the new roots to grow.
Growing roots
Future new soil and repotted plants — photos not shown.
[All photos by A. D. Joyce]
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
A. D. Joyce 