Sunset Scene

The Ragtag Daily Prompt word for today is EASYGOING

and my response will be this poem I wrote one summer evening long ago:

SUNSET SCENE

Softly the sun, its course now run,
slips under the rim of sky,
A crimson wedge stains the western edge,
and blushes the clouds up high.

Twilight steals o’er the dappled fields;
far off a coyote howls;
scented stocks perfume garden walks;
the tabby tomcat prowls.

Gentle breeze shakes the aspen leaves
as the red orb slowly sinks
A light rain falls on the cornstalks tall
and the thirsty garden drinks.

Peaceful scene makes my heart serene
as I sit and contemplate
on back porch swing and observe each thing
enriching my small estate.

Thankful praise is my song these days
and I count my blessings all;
Content with my lot on my small plot
watching the twilight fall.

The Blue Spruce

Poem by Edgar Guest

That Colorado spruce you see,
well, he’s a friend of mine,
for he’s been growing old with me
these last eight years or nine.
And every spring for my delight
he dons a silver dress
and seems to add unto his height
a foot or slightly less.

Some call him Colorado blue;
with that I quarrel not.
I only know whate’er his hue
I like his ways a lot.
Sturdy and straight and tall he stands
against what winds may blow
and sometimes holds his arms and hands
to catch the falling snow.

When our acquaintance first began
I’m sure he looked at me
and wondered if I were a man
who could befriend a tree.
But as the weeks and months slipped by
such doubting was destroyed,
and under clear or stormy sky
each other we’ve enjoyed.

I never walk about the place
but what I stop to chat.
Sometimes I tell him to his face,
“Old boy, you’re getting fat!”
And sometimes in his friendly way
that spruce looks down on me;
“You’re not as slim,” he seems to say,
“As once you used to be.”

From the book Along Life’s Highway
© 1933 by The Reilly & Britton Co.

Wanderers Take Root

 

ROADSIDE FLOWERS

by Bliss Carman

We are the roadside flowers
straying from garden grounds,
lovers of idle hours,
breakers of ordered bounds.

If only the earth will feed us,
if only the wind be kind,
we blossom for those who need us,
the stragglers left behind.

And lo, the Lord of the Garden,
He makes His sun to rise
and His rain to fall with pardon
on our dusty paradise.

On us He has laid the duty,
the task of the wandering breed,
to better the world with beauty,
wherever the way may lead.

Who shall inquire of the season
or question the wind where it blows?
We blossom and ask no reason.
The Lord of the Garden knows.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Baby’s Breath has been blooming for awhile now. A cultivated import into gardens hereabouts two generations ago, it has been borne on the winds to nearby fields and ditches to remind us all that we have to be careful or we’ll upset the local ecosystem with our imported fancies.

The wild sunflowers are in full bloom, too. These native rudbekia plants line our roadsides; as children we called the daisy-like yellow flowers Brown-eyed Susans. But these plants don’t stay in the wild any more than the Baby’s Breath has stayed in the gardens.

When they spring up in a garden where they don’t have to compete with quack grass for moisture, they really thrive. (As you would see if you looked in my untended garden this summer.) They’ll hog what moisture there is, grow over a meter high and produce two dozen sunflowers. The seeds are much-loved by goldfinches, who blend their own bright yellow with that of the flowers as they “harvest” the seeds.

Right now my garden is very golden, as the False Sunflower (heliopsis) is in bloom as well. This is a perennial I planted when we came here, and it doesn’t know its own place, either, but has reseeded here and there in the garden. Unlike the yarrow I also planted, the heliopsis has stayed in the garden; we’ve found patches of yarrow here and there in the lawn and against the garage wall.

This business of keeping everyone in their place — and the weeds out of it all — really takes diligence!

 

Fish Were Biting — Yesterday

THE OLD, OLD STORY

by Edgar Guest

I have no wish to rail at fate,
and vow that I’m unfairly treated;
I do not give vent to my hate
because at times I am defeated.
Life has its ups and downs, I know,
But tell me why should people say
whenever after fish I go:
“You should have been here yesterday”?

It is my luck always to strike
a day when there is nothing doing,
when neither perch nor bass nor pike
my bated hooks will come a-wooing.
Must I a day late always be?
When not a nibble comes my way
must someone always say to me,
“We caught a bunch here yesterday”?

I am not prone to discontent,
nor over-zealous now to climb;
if victory is not yet meant
for me I’ll calmly bide my time.
but I should like just once to go
out fishing on some lake or bay
and not have someone mutter:  “Oh,
you should have been here yesterday!”

From his book,  Collected Verse of Edgar A Guest
c. 1934 by The Reilly & Lee Company