Thursday, March 30, 2017

Thursday Poem - Another Spring

The seasons revolve and the years change
With no assistance or supervision.
The moon, without taking thought,
Moves in its cycle, full, crescent, and full.

The white moon enters the heart of the river;
The air is drugged with azalea blossoms;
Deep in the night a pine cone falls;
Our campfire dies out in the empty mountains.

The sharp stars flicker in the tremulous branches;
The lake is black, bottomless in the crystalline night;
High in the sky the Northern Crown
Is cut in half by the dim summit of a snow peak.

O heart, heart, so singularly
Intransigent and corruptible,
Here we lie entranced by the starlit water,
And moments that should each last forever

Slide unconsciously by us like water.

Kenneth Rexroth

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Summoning Spring Within

She waits for temperatures to rise, for the deep snow in her garden to melt and reveal the rich dark earth of her outdoor sanctuary.  She waits for sunlight to warm the quiet southern alcoves in the garden where snowdrops, hyacinths, daffodils, crocus and tulips make their homes, waiting patiently underground to rise up and bloom in all the colors of the rainbow.

She waits for the great geese to come home and fill the northern skies with their songs of returning, for the eastern Ontario highlands to come to life, wildflowers carpeting the woodland and old hills wherever she walks (or rather lurches).

On a snowy morning in late March, she just has to do something so she goes off to a local nursery, returning home a while later with bunches of hyacinths in blue and purple, tulips in flaming orange, apricot and bright pink.

From their place in a sunny south facing window, the blooms fill the little blue house with their vibrant hues and heady perfume.   If only she could share their color and fragrance with you this morning - absolutely sumptuous.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

Sunday - Saying Yes to the World

Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is really worth the trouble? Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person’s face as you pass them on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. Stand up and face the east. Now praise the sky and praise the light within each person under the sky. It’s okay to be unsure. But praise, praise, praise.
Miranda July

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Friday, March 24, 2017

Friday Ramble - Just Passing Through

Bohemian Waxwing (Bombycilla garrulus
The Bohemian Waxwing passes through the village in October as it heads south to its winter habitat and again in March when it flies back to its summer breeding grounds in the boreal forests of the far north.

Traveling in flocks, waxwings stop along their way to fill up on frozen crabapples, cherries and other fruit, and their appearance makes me smile, a fine thing indeed this year. They fly in circles around the gnarly old crabapple tree, gleefully dance from branch to branch, shout at each other and laugh at their own jokes, pelt each other with frozen crabapples.

Bohemians are also seasonal harbingers, and their appearance in the front yard in late March often means that springtime is on its way.  This time around, you could have fooled me!

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Thursday Poem - East of Broken Top

Sunset reaches out, earth rolls free
yet clings hard to what passes.
Light pours unstinting, though darkness
cuts the horizon and leaps for the sky.
Beyond, in a shadow vast as the world,
a silent upland springs blue where it stands
morning and evening. Its own being,
it never changes while the light plays over it.

We could go there and live, have a place,
a shoulder of earth, watch days
find their way onward in their serious march
where nothing happens but each one is gone.
Some people build cities and live there;
they hurry and shout. We lie on the earth;
to keep from falling into the stars we reach
as wide as we can and hold onto the grass.

William Stafford