Saturday, March 26, 2016

Phenology: no pre-Easter local wildflowers

We're enjoying a Spring rain the day before Easter. During this morning's trip to Marine on St. Croix, we detoured through a drive along the road to the launch area in William O'Brien state park. No sign of wildflowers, but we noted a number of patches that the Better Half claims are wild asparagus and I think are horsetails. I'll go back some time over the next few days and take some photos and we'll watch as the stems develop over the season. Look for updates in future postings, although the emphasis will be on identification, not foraging since "picking wild plants," other than fruits and mushrooms, is against the rules in state parks.

St. Croix Chocolates, Halloween 2015
St. Croix Chocolates, Halloween 2015
Photo by J. Harrington

Our trip to Marine ended at St. Croix Chocolates where the Better Half stood in a line that circled the interior and spilled out onto the patio/deck. (From what she overheard standing in line, the crowd wasn't triggered by this morning's coverage of the business on KARE.) Thankfully, the rain stayed  sprinkles while we were there. I stayed in my vehicle trying to get my iPhone and the entertainment/information center to play together more nicely. The outcome was unsatisfactory, but the Easter chocolates were worth the trip and the wait. Next year we'll get there earlier during Holy Week and, hopefully, avoid the crowd, since by then I should know how to make the phone and the vehicle talk to each other and to me in a language I understand and will have little to amuse myself with as the Better Half does the heavy lifting waiting.

Last Supper

I seem to have come to the end of something, but don’t know what,
Full moon blood orange just over the top of the redbud tree.
Maundy Thursday tomorrow,
                       then Good Friday, then Easter in full drag,
Dogwood blossoms like little crosses
All down the street,
                    lilies and jonquils bowing their mitred heads.

Perhaps it’s a sentimentality about such fey things,
But I don’t think so. One knows
There is no end to the other world,
                                    no matter where it is.
In the event, a reliquary evening for sure,
The bones in their tiny boxes, rosettes under glass.

Or maybe it’s just the way the snow fell
                                         a couple of days ago,
So white on the white snowdrops.
As our fathers were bold to tell us,
                                    it’s either eat or be eaten.
Spring in its starched bib,
Winter’s cutlery in its hands. Cold grace. Slice and fork.


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