JUNE 2, 2023 – FRIDAY 89* AT 2:30 PM by T. Blen Parker

Bright crimson, coral & sunny yellow tulips emerge

amidst purple crocus, yellow daffodils, and showy white narcissus.

Lemony blossoms plant buttery little kisses covering

the forsythia bush, tall and full.

Raspberry pink bleeding hearts wilt in the hot sun.

Lilacs bloom white and light purple until turning toasty brown.

Iris bloom into grape or yellow bearded flags.

Fiery poppies pop out with toasted edges from the hot spring sun.

Allium wave their spiny orbs in the wind.

Lemon lilies emerge from a bed of lilies of the valley,

scenting air sweetly, brightening up the peace garden.

Anticipating lupine blossoms, sometimes Easter lilies turned red in nitrogen-rich compost…..

always left wondering what color they will be

if only Mr. Woodchuck will allow them.

Happiness representatives appear as Johnny Jump Ups appear.

Coils of ferns open to wave in the breeze, stirring Solomon Seal to wag

their delicate white bellflowers, as maple trees release fairy wings

to helicopter down like soft raindrops, covering the first spears of

deep green grass emerging from the brown winter floor

where cheery buttercups glow hello.



Arising at four a.m.
I witness the flash of dawn,
a ritual these days.
Teacup warming my hand,
I raise the porcelain cup
from my grandmother’s tea set
treasured, passed on to me,
perfect for celebrating each new day
on Mother Earth’s green earth.

A hearty hooty-hoot-hoot
echoes through the tall trees
as the repetitious call
interrupts my focus on the
silver flash of dawn
and the sun breaking
over the treetops across the Kennebec.

Sliding glass doors
allow a vast view
of steaming fog-pods
rising from the forest floor
out of the lush garden;
a thick carpet filled with
varieties of green ferns.

Secrets and worries whispered
evaporate away,
silently upward
into the Universe


Peering down through the water

past variations of deep green, golden,

olive, mocha, teal and silvery seaweed,

undulating movements detected far below.

Curiosity in check, attention diverted

to ever growing lines of people forming

for whale-watching tours,

lighthouse trips on double-decker boats,

and anxious honeymooners, listening

to waves sloshing against dock pilings,

impatiently waiting for a sunset cruise in Maine.

“How deep is the water here?”…one asks,

pulling fresh saltwater taffy from their teeth

as they stand on the weathered dock.

A precise answer would take too long,

offer more details than expected,

impart more information than

a passing curiosity warrants.

The answer, “You just can’t get there from here.

The bottom is farther than a person

could swim without an air tank or gills,

more icy than bare skin could withstand,

darker than the inside of those caves

way up on the cliffs across the bay.”

A fish-finder, chart, sonar,

or sounding device

would calculate precise readings

of water depth in mathematical terms.

Will those statistics offer

a clear vision, a sensation

of what it feels like to experience

icy underwater depth,

or feel the panic

of crushing water pressure,

to realize the sensation

of burning saltwater

filling ones lungs?

Taking a deep breath,

catching my reflection in the surface,

drowning in intense thoughts

I imagine – probably not,

those thoughts remain

buried incredibly deep.


Burning scarlet rays
of the morning sun
pulse through layers of chiffon fog
revealing crystal rainbow prisms.
Dewdrops cling to leaf tips,
until they slowly evaporate.

Feathery tender ferns unfurl
under the warmth of ole sol,
magically awakening dozens of
Eastern Tiger Swallowtail
cocoons suddenly hatching.

In a gentle swirl, an upward funnel
bursting with virgin butterflies
releases into the sky, reaching
the tallest tree tops
only to disappear,
guided by instinct
to seek the nectar of life.