Welcome to another Poetry Friday Adventure!
Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our poetry challenge for the month of JULY.
Here’s the scoop: we’re circling back to the beginning by revisiting Pádraig Ó Tuama’s Poetry Unbound challenge from way back in January. (After scrolling to the very bottom of the post), use the eight prompts he provides us to produce eight lines to organize into a Midyear Pantoum that gives you a sense for where you are now, and where you’re going with the rest of your year. Are you in? Good! You’ll have the month to craft your creation and share it July 31st in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. See you then!
Happy June, friends!
A few days after Solstice I was clearing off my art desk – finally – and found some sealed envelopes. New Year’s Cards… which I’d never sent. Honestly, that’s SO on brand for this year (and this month) that it made me laugh out loud (and apologies and felicitations to the people who are going to be receiving their New Year’s cards six months in – but hey, now we know we survived it, right? Right. Happy Halfway to January Again). I definitely needed to read Louise Ireland’s Louise Ireland’s August Triptych, a poem that depicts the exigencies of discarded urgency and celebrates the beauty in the ephemeral – all those things that don’t last, including blooms and buds, attention, and time.
From Process…
Because I’ve been reading this poem over and over again since Tabatha Yeatts introduced it to me, I can say that this was one of the easiest works to slip into as a mentor poem. Not because the poem has strong meter or rhyme that insists on drumming its way into me, but because the first line of that first stanza stops me cold again and again. Freedom is a fence gone slack. All I could think of when I read that was, “What could I escape, but don’t? What ‘fullness of time’ line item have I been auditing, waiting on paperwork and assurances which might never occur?”
Put that way, suddenly the topic shouldered its way into the forefront of my brain. I wrote this poem in a single sitting, in the short window of time we gave ourselves to write collaboratively with those of us able to meet on a Sunday afternoon. That rarely-to-never happens for me, and normally I’d take the time to fuss with and edit the poem. Not today.
Though some others of my Poetry Sisters did thorough editing and revision. Liz’s poem is here. Mary Lee’s poem is here. Michelle K’s triptych is here. You’ll find Poetry Friday hostess Tricia’s poem here. Diane Davis’s evocatively titled triptych is here. Other Poetry Peeps may taking on Louise Ireland’s beautiful poem may pop in throughout the weekend, so do check back for the round-up here.
…To Poetry
The poem that followed germinated in part because we sat down to have our poem chat on Father’s Day… a Father’s Day where I was home and not at my parents’ house, a Father’s Day where I didn’t even buy my Dad a card or a bottle of Dad’s Root Beer, because he didn’t want it.

untitled triptych on louise ireland’s “august”
draft ©2026 ts davis
I.
Restless guest, a wind swirls through
sundering, as petals shower.
Mature trees release with grace,
Making way for swelling fruit
and, ripening,
harvest.
II.
Daughterhood’s a part-time job,
so my father says.
Per his last email,
we, the begotten,
should leave him in peace
until he calls.
So much free time
I’ll not spend waiting
for royal scepters
extended my way.
III.
Nectar-drunk
bees feast on crushed fruit
flawed
isn’t
fatal
even bruised buds
still smell sweet.
Well. It is what it is. The grass withers, the flowers fades, but what is timeless – the rhythms of change and choice – last forever. Seedtime and harvest. Sunrise and sunset. And, when we choose it, love that is the foundation of the world.
So until next time friends, pull your weeds, replant your borders, and leave a little water out for the honeybees. They’ll find the fruit on their own. And because it is always worth saying so that I hear it myself – remember you are so, so loved.
Happy Weekend🌻
Oh, wow, Tanita. This is a gorgeous, complicated, honest, deeply human poem. Thank you thank you for writing it and for bringing us to that beautiful place in the end….
Ah, Tanita, a poem full of wisdom found, words from your father, though the emotional blast you’ve shared with us as parents made me think and re-think my own connections, especially with “So much free time/I’ll not spend waiting”. Maybe this will lead to more thoughts, as children, and as parents?
@Linda Baie: At least I *hope* it’s wisdom! The thinking continues…
p.s. was yours the anonymous comment on my blog this week? It sounded like you. 🙂
@Karen Edmisten: Oh, for goodness sakes, yes that was me. Google signs me out and sometimes I’m just anonymous and persona non grata with them. Hmph!
Oh, Tanita, there is so much here. I feel a little nectar-drunk, like your bees. I just read Tricia’s comment and she summed up so much of what I felt as I read this. ❤️
My father has been gone almost three years now and I have to admit that I’m still working out some of what was flawed but not fatal. (It was complicated.) That is such a hopeful and generous line.
@Karen Edmisten: (It’s ALWAYS complicated.)
You’v woven in richness in movement and layers from “swelling fruit/and, ripening,/harvest, to father’s with scepters, and “we, the begotten,” and then again, circling back to nature and her “Nectar-drunk/bees”—Wow, lots in there, and yes “even bruised buds” can bounce back, thanks for that rising ending Tanita!
@Michelle Kogan: Thanks, Michelle.
Somehow your poem makes the perfect companion piece to Ann Patchett’s WHISTLER, which I finished reading (with my ears as I knit) this morning.
I have to remind myself that I am still a daughter, even though both scepter-bearers are long gone. I get to leave them in peace until *I* call. And I do. More often now in this time of realizing, as you do, that “flawed/isn’t/fatal.”
@Cousin MaryLee: The last stanza pays for all, though I struggled more there. I tried to match the shifts in perspective that the original poem had and think of freedom in terms of petals which are ripped away but it’s part of the process, children who are shunted aside by adulthood, and then bees who circle back after the flowers are gone for the fruit. Flawed isn’t fatal, and the bees are still fed in the end.
I look at how others have navigated the time and the loss of scepter-bearers, and I’m grateful for your example of grace.
Your second stanza has me undone. “Daughterhood’s a part-time job.” Yup. And the last sentence of the stanza is a bit heartbreaking. Then you turn it around and mend my broken heart in the last stanza with
“flawed/isn’t/fatal.” Thank you for this lovely poem.
I’m glad we both found lessons in the bees.
@Miss Rumphius: That bees are so intrepid and find a way towards nectar regardless of obstacles is just… #goals. Even the imperfect has value for their society, and I am grateful that age allows me to stumble towards that truth in my world.