Cyclamen

 

November 4, 2022

Wrote a poem in fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes before dawn. 

Saw the turkey flock in the west yard and went out to look at them. They swarmed up on the porch around me, poking their beaks forlornly at the empty seed bowl, brushing my legs with their feathers, registering their disappointment that I’d put nothing out for them. My first morning chore was buying seed at Southern States. The giant man there hoisted my sacks into the back of the car, saying, “You’d better use me while you have me.” He was monumental. 

Considerable deposits of bear shit by the pond. They must come exclusively by night now. 

Cyclamen blooms under the bamboo and dried goldenrod. 

The white rose I photographed and wrote of and made a poem upon still blooms the same bloom in the front garden.