My writing friend and I share teas and talk, through hot days and shivery snow storms. About writing mostly. Sometimes our thoughts are of dreams and ideas and, every once in a while, of a shared passion: words.
Robyn Marie Butt lives about a mile from me. On the farm which was her family’s growing up place, a sweeping, idyllic wonder of willows, old barn wood, pine needles, summer camp, and a huge pond where herons dip and ducks flip their emerald necks in perfect water.
She is a writer.
Check out her extensive resume here on the Boularderie Island Press website and then come back to wander with me through her latest book, A Hundred Poems About Flowers: The First Twenty-Five.
Now, I am not that girl who slips into poetry willingly. I taught English and, thankfully, came to have a slight understanding of its beauty but that’s all. Words in storied bouquets wrapped up in plot and character are more my thing.
But I bought my friend’s book.
And she took me to places I’d never allowed myself to know. Through the flowers her poems touch, Robyn fingers poignant parts of her life, her loves, her soul. And, along the way, she has touched my own.
Her book is a series of poems and with each a painting of the flowers in the spotlight, each painted by a local artist. To give you a small sense of the talent of this poet I’ve inserted a portion of my favourite poem, the last one in the book, Lily (apologies to Robyn for the inexact spacing here.)
I have sat in a garden
at Glendower (now overgrown)
I have sat there
slim and bare-legged, sweat dried
from a summer run
alerted by the tenderest of tickles
and watched a bumblebee
landed on my thigh
stretch its pencil-stroke
to lick my sweat
lick and lick
gathering the taste of me
for her children’s honey
I have been loved
by a garden
and by its keeper.