Death of a Stag

Where their master left them

five hounds faced their prey,

great stag surrounded beneath the cliff.

 

The morning sky rosy-hued….

 

Curly-haired Actaeon, young in heart,

woods-wise, heard the sound of splashing water.

His pack unsettled, nostrils flared, refused

the climb, a worn path steeply carved.

 

The stout bow-man determined to bring down

the quarry of his morning quest, meat for the table,

a hearth-tale to be recited before other hunters.

 

Hand over hand, quietly he climbed,

his dogs boar-scarred, bull-slayers,

pacing below.

 

A boulder sheltered the hunter

as he crested the ridge. Still the air,

no sound from the pool.

 

Out brave Actaeon bounded, bow drawn,

No deer there, but Diana herself,

bathing among her woodland nymphs.

 

As the nymphs shrieked, the ungowned goddess,

Mistress of the Hunt, flung out her arms,

dousing the brawny interloper with spring water.

 

Recoiling, the stout woodsman covered his eyes,

but too late for forgiveness, the man become a great stag,

furious Diana, her power unleashed.

 

Down the rocky trail the deer bounded,

stumbling to the ground from the steep pitch.

Instincts triggered, the snarling dogs attacked.

 

There young Actaeon set upon, a stag by ferocious fangs

ripped apart, while Diana leaned back in repose.

Rosy-hued, the morning’s sky….

Lyman 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ahead, Spring

Coincidentally, here on the first day of March several daffodils have bloomed, and a flower has opened on one of the transplanted quinces. The daffodils are bedraggled, a morning downpour has them limp for now. 

Of course, hardly spring here in Zone 7b. The markers, the springing ahead into a time change, the vernal equinox, and finally the last average frost date are to come. But the weather folks assured us today marks the meteorological beginning of spring.

Works for me.

I've done some seasonal pruning and some transplanting. In truth, though, I'm mostly waiting until later in the month to recondition some raised beds, even build a few new ones for this year's vegetables. Tomatoes and cucumbers--by seed--sweet potatoes per a young neighbor's request. Peppers, too, though every year I decide not to mess with them. 

In the meantime, I scout my trees and shrubs for encouraging signs spring is coming. Swelling buds on the largest almond tree, even a hint of color if I have my glasses on. Nothing yet on the Yoshino, nor the dogwoods, maples, or apple trees. 

When the weather allows, I roam the yard, bending branches up toward me for inspection--new growth on the tea olives? Nothing on azaleas, lilac, weigela. Not a sign of anything on the forsythia even though I know it to be one of the earliest bloomers.

A bluebird couple has been at the new box, and the geese, the hawks, the ducks all seem to be paired for the season ahead. Haven't seen a second heron yet, but as I remind myself, over and over, it's early still.

Do I envy my gardening friends close to the coast, yes. Do I pity my friends living north of Iowa, yes. Do I want spring to be at hand, a thousand times yes. Always want to spring ahead, never to fall back. 

I think they call that Key West.