bloodroot Haibun

Ever since I saw  first saw Ruth MacDowell's quilt "Bloodroot", I have been entranced by this early spring flower. Its leaves grow through whatever is on the earth's surface in a finger-like protuberance. They blend with the ground cover. Then the pure white blossoms pop out of the tiny leaves still wrapped around them. The petals glow against the browns of the newly exposed garden's surface. They are particularly dramatic on a grey overcast day.
                                   Surprise me- again
                                   from brown seemingly nothing
                                   spring color returns.

Each year, and I have a series of photos to prove it, I am drawn to the section of the shade garden(#2 in my collection of gardens) where the  deeply articulated, graceful, rich green leaves of the bloodroot were last seen in the fall. Where are they, those little babies?, I wonder.
I will barely detect their fingers poking up.
I should clean the garden, but worry I will step on any new growths. 
Then, suddenly, I spot them and celebrate each tiny bump.

                                      Sing to me, phoebe.
                                     Sing and bounce on the tiny branch.
                                     My special spring firsts.

Today I picked a bouquet from the front garden (#7, oldest and largest of the collection). Brilliant yellow
daffodils now glow on the table top. Tulips will be next, then irises. But those marvelous bloodroot blossoms, so short lived and little, never make it to the table top. My memory and photos capture them.

                                         I  pathetically
                                         adore your your delicacy.
                                         stay longer this year.           

Am I such a dolt to question the wonder of the return of the bloodroot? the phoebe?
I'd like to think not. I am, however, inadequate in the face of the reliability of  Nature to cycle through her marvels. I am but a struggling keeper of the soil, a paltry observer of all these treasures as they come, and go, before me.
                     
                                         I pathetically
                                         write lines and photo again
                                         clear notes, white petals.



April 19, 2009




April 5, 2010