Golden grove unleaving

Time with Bella under the pear tree in her back yard. “Can you believe it?” she asked me. “Weeks ago this tree was full of pears, and now it’s bare sticks. You would think it was dead, but it’s not.”

I thought of the Hopkins poem,

Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
…It is Margaret you grieve for.

As I made a few photographs of Bella in the shadows, I remembered also Sean O’Casey: “I tell you life is not one thing, but many things, a wide branching flame, grand and good to see and feel, dazzling to the eye of no-one living it.” 

Bits of poetry still float up to the surface from time to time, petals in a stream. I catch a phrase here, a line there, and they float away.

A full day. Margie in the morning, the grands in the afternoon and evening. Tired now.