Those pesky Internet-stealing Goblins struck again last night. Since I can only write so many sentences with ease on my phone, all of the lovely posts I had planned for today (and possibly tomorrow) are temporarily on hold. Here are a couple of random photos to tide you over.
Whenever I hike through the 733 acres of our local cemetery, I have to stifle the compulsion to declaim poetry to an audience of tombstones, trees, and birds. Instead, I turn the words inward, or whisper them under my breath. The shadow-poets I prefer change with the seasons. If winter’s sharp, cold, stinging reach is perfect for Sylvia Plath, then the gloriously still warmth of spring is the natural home for the distilled, profound and subtle Emily Dickinson.
Two forlorn graves and clumps of wildflowers are the perfect audience for Emily’s poems.
*“Nature” is what we see” is the opening line from an Emily Dickinson poem.
“The earth has music for those who listen.”-George Santayana
“Flowers…are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world.”-Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature –the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.”-Rachel Carson
He stands watch over our urban street, nature’s guardian lost in a maze of manufacturing buildings. If he moves his branches just so, other trees come within view. Across the way, down the road. They have their own concerns; he is alone.
Lonely Tree, Take Two
Telephone poles, wires, patchy squirrels, delicate birds, and empty water bottles interact with him fleetingly, coldly. I wonder if they even speak the same language? Continue reading →
“Is it snowing where you are? All the world that I see from my tower is draped in white and the flakes are coming down as big as pop-corns. It’s late afternoon-the sun is just setting (a cold yellow colour) behind some colder violet hills, and I am up in my window-seat using the last light to write to you.”-Jean Webster, Daddy-Long-Legs
Urban Snowscape, Colour
“Winter is not a season, it’s an occupation.”-Sinclair Lewis