The weekend was stacking up to contain some possibly
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 ...
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
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 ~