Today I am invoking my privilege as Creator and changing the rules. Rather than meditate on yet another poem about death, I have deployed the Genius of Random Chance. I opened the book at random and chose the first poem that my eyes settled on. I got a good one, good for this Strawberry full moon.
According to my research it was the Algonquin people who decided to call the first full moon in June the Strawberry Moon. Ever since, white people have stuck with it and it’s considered fact by the Farmer’s Almanac. It makes sense that the Algonquin would call it that. Our strawberry season, this far south in Louisiana is nearly done. Too hot. In the region where the Algonquin lived, the strawberries would still be coming in around this time of year.
Here’s what Emily has to say today:
#334, c. 1862
All the letters I can write
Are not fair as this—
Syllables of Velvet—
Sentences of Plush,
Depths of Ruby, undrained,
Hid, Lip, for Thee—
Play it were a Humming Bird—
And just sipped—me—
Oh, my. The poet is a flower. Her poem a hungry humming bird, bringing sweet nectar to another. Who? Who cares. After some little meditation on these lines, I’m a little twitter-pated.
Is it me, or is it hot in here?