Pizza for breakfast

The weekend was stacking up to contain some possibly

wild weather,

forecasters detailing a big cold front headed our way

gliding down from the frigid Fraser River Valley in B.C.

One never knows living out in these islands

which way the winds will end up blowing,

if an "event" will or will not actually happen,

so yesterday while a few flakes drifted over Little Pond

I took some photos.

That cluster of bare alders in the center is a simple armiture this time of year

but gives a welcome view deeper into the woods.

I love how lichen puts a fluffy blanket on the willow grove back there.

Then, this morning there was this.  It's wet & sloshy but oh, so pretty.

I ate leftover pizza for breakfast [gluten free & spicy],

drank strong coffee

and decided to not do the laundry after all.

It's that kind of Sunday

and I may not get out of my sweats all day either ...

Upstairs,

I'm working on my piece for India's celebration book & this is a good thing

because [you know I have this problem with completing things]

she's set a deadline ... March 19th.

Maybe with an end date I will actually  finish  something.

I'm a little nervous

although forging ahead with great determination.

I hope she receives a tidal wave of submissions

so the book will be very

FAT.

And if you're reading about this for the first time

& happen to be one of her former students,

the details for participating can be found  HERE.

What a wonderful project for her to offer everyone ...

:::

Lately I've been filling my head with poetry before going to sleep.

Here's one I like from last night:

What The Dog Perhaps Hears

If an inaudible whistle

blown between our lips

can send him home to us,

then silence is perhaps

the sound of spiders breathing

and roots mining the earth;

it may be asparagus heaving,

headfirst, into the light

and the long brown sound

of cracked cups, when it happens.

We would like to ask the dog

if there is a continuous whir

because the child in the house

keeps growing, if the snake

really stretches full length

without a click and the sun

breaks through clouds without

a decibel of effort,

whether in autumn, when the trees

dry up their wells, there isn't a shudder

too high for us to hear.

What is it like up there

above the shut-off level

of our simple ears?

For us there was no birth cry,

the newborn bird is suddenly here,

the egg broken, the nest alive,

and we heard nothing when the world changed.

~ by Lisel Mueller ~