There's nothing quite as cool-looking(temperaturewise) as BLUE flowers. I grew Phacelia a few years ago, best blue i ever saw, next to cornflowers. The bell-shaped blue flowers with icy-white anthers were beautiful, and stirred up images of cooler weather. They do have a short bloom time, hot weather just about stops the show, cutting back helps somewhat. Give 'em a try, i believe there are 2 or 3 varieties. Good luck, and enjoy.

Go to the site listed at the bottom of this page, and look under poems, they have a TON of scrapbook links at this site. Penny Here is a link that might be useful: Scraplink

friedag--is one of the following Mary Oliver poems the "climbing" one you had in mind? Of the handful of poems by Oliver that I know, these are the only ones that feature climbing--but there is no ladder, unless you want to count the tree as a ladder. Happiness In afternoon I watched the she-bear; she was looking For the secret bin of sweetness-- honey, that the bees store in the trees' soft caves. Black block of gloom, she climbed down tree after tree and shuffled on through the woods. And then she found it! The honey-house deep as heartwood, and dipped into it among the swarming bees--honey and comb she lipped and tongued and scooped out in her black nails, until maybe she grew full, or sleepy, or maybe a little drunk, and sticky down the rugs of her arms, and began to hum and sway. I saw her let go of the branches, I saw her lift her honeyed muzzle into the leaves, and her thick arms, as though she would fly-- an enormous bee all sweetness and wings-- down into the meadows, the perfection of honeysuckle and roses and clover-- to float and sleep in the sheer nets swaying from flower to flower day after shining day. That final image always cracks me up--the big shaggy bear, drunk on honey, fantasizing about being a tiny little bee flying around in ectasy as she gathers the pollen for making honey all day long! Don't we sometimes long to be the exact opposite of what we really are--in this case, a bear's version of Cinderella at the ball, perhaps. LOL The Honey Tree And so at last I climbed the honey tree, ate the bodies of bees that could not get out of my way, ate the dark hair of the leaves, the rippling bark, the heartwood. Such frenzy! But joy does that, I'm told, in the beginning. Later, maybe, I'll come here only sometimes and with a middling hunger. But now I climb like a snake, I clamber like a bear to the nuzzling place, to the light salvaged by the thighs of bees and racked up in the body of the tree. Oh, anyone can see how I love myself at last! how I love the world! climbing by day or night in the wind, in the leaves, kneeling at the secret rip, the cords of my body stretching and singing in the heaven of appetite May we all discover the "secret bin of sweetness" --joy and love--and find within ourselves a "heaven of appetite" for the honey of life! I like to pair these two poems (don't know if Oliver intended that or not)--the second poem showing what she learned from the bear (from nature) about living life to the fullest ("gathering rosebuds" while we may, as our favorite 17th century poet might put it?) as she figuratively climbs the tree of sweetness that the bear literally climbed. If neither is the right poem, they are still a couple of my favorite contemporary nature poems. Maybe this is why I'm fond of bears in nature poems. Kate

Yes, Dido--I am familiar with that poem and have taught it many times in the past--but strangely enough, had forgotten it. Thank you for reminding me. Impressive imagery. It chokes me up--the old lie! Since we are on anti-war poems, here are a couple more that I used to teach along with Owen. The Jarrell poem--WWII-- leaves us gasping because it is pure horrifying image with no commentary. The shortest and maybe most realistic war poem I know--and a fitting postscript to Owen: "The old Lie: dulce et decorum est/ Pro patria more." The second one--WWI poem--, with its repetitions and wandering, circling thoughts that take us no where but leave us caught in an endlessly pointless repeating maze, also leaves us gasping with its final pointed question--what are "patterns" for? The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner By Randall Jarrell From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose. Patterns By Amy Lowell I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths. My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime-tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. ...