Pressing against the back fence, the laurel grove
unchecked, fecund, divides the garden from the doomed land beyond—the sanctuary of the laurels' sheltering leaves and skeletal limbs welcoming ghosts and refugees. And in the distance rise islands of cedar and fir vertical, ascending, their tiers of drapery undulate above honeysuckle cresting the hedge; hung with morning glory streamers, the vines fling up a tumult of flowery spume-- gold charged with red. Metallic bronze, the garden statue stands bright, hard surrounded by yellow yarrow wedges punctuated by geraniums of blue, the hostas and ferns mingling with anemone, lady's mantle, and Queen Anne's lace overlaid with the scent of sweet peas, lilies, phlox. A rising nucleus of ivory butterflies gathering, detaching, fluttering electrons that spiral up to meet berry blossoms floating down around them into a verdigris ocean of waiting shadows etched with cryptic webs. The complement of resident birds emerges: a shuffling spotted towhee, the blue rattle of jays, the earth tones of blustery chickadees, hummingbirds hovering and hectoring, the robin's white-ringed glare. And when the laurel fruit ripens juicy, magenta, mobs of resolute starlings descend, and two popsicle bright tanagers—flying south-- join in the cacophony of harvesting until that ancient imperative pushes them on again. Thick black and gold dragonflies (and thin blue ones too) posed, still, listen to the wren (cousin to White Rabbit) whispering and sighing over the troubles to come, his warnings of ruin approaching, heads imperiled, as the garden drifts into fall. Nancy Christiansen
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AuthorI am a Northwest artist making collages from mulberry papers stamped by hand from original images that I have carved. Archives
April 2024
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