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gary-l-mischPoems
April is their month. They've sat, Patient, Throughout the winter, Those sturdy oval buds, Sometimes cased in ice, They don't seem To mind. Are they awaiting, Tax time? These jewels Keep company with Their pretty pink Cousins, The Redbud. Why does the dogwood Ask For our attention So? Perhaps because it Blooms so early, When There is so little else To see. Perhaps it is the legend that, From the poor dogwood, Came the wood, From which was fashioned, The true cross. More likely it's just, The timeless beauty, Born-in beauty, From long ago, Needing no Adornment, And not a bit Of pruning. Touch it with a knife, You'll invite disease. Let it grow ***** nilly, It will give you, Perfect beauty, On its own. Wild, It sits beneath The forest cover, Like a craggy, Wasted twig, Dwarfed, By its bigger cousins. And then, Before any others, That slim and subtle Beauty First appears, As an Exquisite miniature, Creamy yellow flowers, That open, To bleach themselves white, And show the Blood red crosses At their center. They are Gems, That change, Day by day, So leave your camera Home. You cannot catch Their beauty. Instead, Imprint the view Upon your mind. They'll be back Next year, More beautiful Than ever.
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May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Photographing Dogwoods
April is their month. They've sat, Patient, Throughout the winter, Those sturdy oval buds, Sometimes cased in ice, They don't seem To mind. Are they awaiting, Tax time? These jewels Keep company with Their pretty pink Cousins, The Redbud. Why does the dogwood Ask For our attention So? Perhaps because it Blooms so early, When There is so little else To see. Perhaps it is the legend that, From the poor dogwood, Came the wood, From which was fashioned, The true cross. More likely it's just, The timeless beauty, Born-in beauty, From long ago, Needing no Adornment, And not a bit Of pruning. Touch it with a knife, You'll invite disease. Let it grow ***** nilly, It will give you, Perfect beauty, On its own. Wild, It sits beneath The forest cover, Like a craggy, Wasted twig, Dwarfed, By its bigger cousins. And then, Before any others, That slim and subtle Beauty First appears, As an Exquisite miniature, Creamy yellow flowers, That open, To bleach themselves white, And show the Blood red crosses At their center. They are Gems, That change, Day by day, So leave your camera Home. You cannot catch Their beauty. Instead, Imprint the view Upon your mind. They'll be back Next year, More beautiful Than ever.
gary-l-misch
Written by
gary-l-misch
American
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
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