Poet Commentaries

The Season of Wrong

There is no way to make exciting the “undone” and no way to explain this that I know of.  It really is not something easy to promote but it is a principle demanded of us time and time again.  In order to discuss it it is appropriate first to make clear that any undone undone properly is an act of obedience to what we are.  I do not speak of laziness, that is just how it feels.

Nature understands this concept and gives us many examples. The relationship most people have with nature limits them however to only recognize and celebrate three acts of obedience, and even these they take for granted…  The birth, the flowering and the fruit.  

In the Daffodil bulb is spears and sunshine. There are stages that it must go through to be.  This is an unfortunate thing for the bulb. Why can it not stay at rest? Why must it wither and recede?  It must alas be obedient to different joys.  

I have used negative words like wither and recede. I “cut back death” at the end of the season.  I prefer though to say at the end of flowering that I “tuck it back into its rest”

(some bad haiku that helped develop the concept…things seen in nature, not everything needs to be polished)


the daffodils
they were absent
when the Mums bloomed

a great spring show
the daffodils work
for their cozy bed

the cherry blossoms
at last
they become pits

verdant alfalfa
seeded to make amends
green manure


Perhaps people need to learn to be obedient to seasons too.  There are some pretty cool seasons to get to know.  I do not speak of baby, toddler, child and teen etc.  What I speak about is winters of being wrong, springs of ideas still below the surface ready to burst, summer of sunshine and rain and ..fall; we all fall.  Always having to be on and be “something” is wrong on every level.  I suspect sometimes that otherwise good people turn into the invasive weeds of hybrids and bullies because of this notion.

When society says one always has to bloom and produce fruit it pushes people to morph. We feel ashamed of being a bulb full of sunshine not seen yet or the blush on a fall tree.  We try to measure up and frankly the only way we can do this is lies and false hopes.  A daffodil bulb forced in a pot for spring display takes years to heal and follow again it’s natural cycle and a Daffodil bulb will never be a Hyacinth no matter how hard it tries.  

My massage therapist is constantly bringing me to relax, to not help.  To fall into the table and go limp.  Always she needs to remind me as I forget how to behave and trust this beautiful season of massage.  How exactly does the Daffodil fall back into itself at the end of a busy working spring?  How does one fold itself into a grandpa?  Best of all how does one enjoy being wrong or the simple meadow Rue or to be the peacemaker getting people to concede to some measure of  imperfect.

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