These birds are sitting on a fallen branch in a lake. But, one day, this same scene could be birds sitting on the rooftop of what once was a beachfront hotel.
Here at Weeds & Wildflowers, we celebrate nature. We post photos of birds, butterflies, bees, flowers, oceans, trees, gardens, vegetables, and an assortment of wildlife. We write about hikes through nature, boating, about our tomato plants, and even ice-fishing. But, do we think of how much longer we’ll have the privilege of waxing poetic about what we take for granted?
Alan Asnen recently wrote this piece for Weeds &…
Happy April, Weeds & Wildflowers!
First, I want to apologize for being slow in publishing during the past week or so. I’ve been dealing with health issues and feeling very poorly. Simply sitting at the computer is a drain on my energy.
April is the month of new beginnings. Spring may arrive on the calendar in March but for many locations, there are no signs of spring until April. And, I hope April will be a new beginning for me as I finally conquer my health concerns. Think about new beginnings you would like to create. …
at dawn we gather
drinking in the green of spring
© Dennett 2021
Each morning, several flocks of black-bellied whistling ducks gather on the edge of our lake, waiting for the cracked corn we provide for their breakfast. At this time of year, when nature is most verdant, I imagine myself and the ducks drinking in the greenness that surrounds us. The brilliance of the new leaves is enough to leave us drunk with spring happiness.
Already our spring is headed for the door where summer impatiently waits to enter. Here in Florida, spring is glorious but short…
I recently wrote this story about a friend’s harrowing experience with a narcissistic husband and the comfort she found in washing dishes — the warm, sudsy water was meditational therapy for her:
My story was true. I can’t remember another time that I wrote a true story and had someone question my honesty but Steve Nixon did:
You must understand, therefore, that from my own lived perspective I sadly inform you — whether you realize it or not — the story you’re telling is a true romantic work of near absolute fiction (with a discernable whiff of misandry).
I am 66 years old. At this age, many women can say their mothers have passed on. Their losses may have come yesterday, last year, ten years ago, or more. Few can say their loss was 66 years ago.
My mother died when I was not quite three months old. Massive heart attack at the age of 39. She left behind me, two other daughters, and my dad — a man who would never have wanted children if he knew the future required him to be both father and mother. He wasn’t very good at either.
I grew up independent…
Barbara was hiding. From her husband. With two children. In a duplex on the edge of Atlanta.
The last time I saw her, she was with that husband in a house I could never afford. New and roomy and lovely. But, Barbara wasn’t Barbara.
I knew her from our days working for the same law firm. She was the senior partner’s secretary. Efficient, poised, professional. After her second child, a not-happy marriage became a miserable one. He left and she stayed in their typical Florida 3/2 home with a middle-class mortgage in a middle-class neighborhood.
Like a fairytale, her knight…
In my youth, moody colors were my choice
the grays of fog and browns of trees,
the angst of not-yet-adulthood,
of wanting to be and not being.
In young adult years, I went bolder and brighter,
red the color that dominated —
a car, a kitchen, clothes, and shoes,
a hue that screamed I’m here!
In later adult years, red flowed to orange,
similar but different, sometimes brighter,
sometimes more like autumn, a color
that didn’t feel like me but how I wanted to be.
The just-left-of-middle years were colorless, no preference, they all seemed the same and none mattered…
I was always a writer but lived in a bookkeeper’s body before I found Medium and broke free — well, almost. Working to work less and write more.