salve for poison ivy and dermatitis.
Nature provides the cure right next to the plant that causes the ailment.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Three or four years ago there wasn't many if any of this invasive flower called Purple Loosestrife in this wetland. But today the plant has taken over, erasing the diverse and delicately balanced ecosystem of this swamp near the Kankakee River. Plants where fish raise young and plants where waterfowl and other birds feed are systematically being pushed out by the hearty and extremely invasive purple plant.
Probably arriving on an infected boat, Purple Loosestrife, if left unchecked, will quickly take over the whole area until there is no water visible for fish, fishing, or wildlife . We will have our hands full trying to save this wetland in future years.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Among the bumble-bees in red-top hay,
A freckled field of brown-eyed Susans dripping yellow leaves in July,
I read your heart in a book.
And your mouth of blue pansy
—I know somewhere I have seen it rain-shattered.
And I have seen a woman with her head flung between her naked knees,
and her head held there listening to the sea,
the great naked sea shouldering a load of salt.
And the blue pansy mouth sang to the sea:
"Mother of God, I’m so little a thing,
Let me sing longer,
Only a little longer."
And the sea shouldered its salt in long gray combers hauling new shapes on the beach sand.
Adelaid Crapsey by Carl Sandburg
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
White Campions because of the seed pot. Looking like tiny Indian pottery, the tiny pots open showing the wondrous seeds inside. Apparently birds find the seeds tasty---they don't last long.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
But with the storms came cooler weather; for the first time in weeks we had a good soaking rain, and everything in the forest---wildflowers and wildlife is rejoicing.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
This wild rose is has two such insects getting nourishment or making a home or both.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
THINK, the ragged turf-boy urges
O’er the dusty road his asses;
Think, on the seashore for the lonely
Heron wings along the sand.
Think, in woodland under oak-boughs
Now the streaming sunbeam passes:
And bethink thee thou art servant
To the same all-moving hand.
Think by Charles Weeks
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Monday, July 16, 2012
Friday, July 13, 2012
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
I went out to the farthest meadow,
I lay down in the deepest shadow;
And I said unto the earth, “Hold me,
And unto the night, “O enfold me,”
And unto the wind petulantly
I cried, “You know not for you are free!”
And I begged the little leaves to lean
Low and together for a safe screen;
Then to the stars I told my tale:
That is my home-light, there in the vale,
“And O, I know that I shall return,
But let me lie first mid the unfeeling fern.
“For there is a flame that has blown too near,
And there is a name that has grown too dear,
And there is a fear …”
And to the still hills and cool earth and far sky I made moan,
The heart in my bosom is not my own!
“O would I were free as the wind on wing;
Love is a terrible thing
Love is a Terrible Thing by Grace Fallow Norton
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Makes standing in the shade even the more pleasant. Stay cool.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
I STAND alone through each long day
Upon these pavers; cannot see
The wares spread out upon this tray
For God has taken sight from me!
Many a time I've cursed the night
When I was born. My peering eyes
Have sought for but one ray of light
To pierce the darkness. When the skies
Rain down their first sweet April showers
On budding branches; when the morn
Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers,
I've cursed the night when I was born.
But now I thank God, and am glad
For what I cannot see this day
—The young men cripples, old, and sad,
With faces burnt and torn away;
Or those who, growing rich and old,
Have battened on the slaughter,
Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold,
Are creased in purple laughter!
The Blind Pedlar by Osbert Sitwell