It is unseasonably cold.
it has rained for 2 days.
Last week I wondered why my mood had dipped.
Winter dragging into summer was becoming tiresome.
Looking out of my kitchen window: there she was.
I simply had to capture her strength, her resilience, her beauty.
Bluebells for a baby,
blossom strewn along a path.
I hear whispers in the wind
of many years ago- long past.
Never know to me or you,
alive in memories alone.
sibling silence shakes the branches of
this silent late May storm.
Wind blown ashes in the grass roots,
buried deep beneath our skin.
Tight in rosebuds, deep in sinews –
every raindrop, pause and song.
I mark the spot – you are remembered,
with our steps we walk your way.
I scan the words of love and family,
oft’ united: come what may.
Laid there like a twist of rusting metal.
He said he should kill it –
find a stone and bash its tiny head.
Crush it into the sand.
I squirmed and took a step back.
His toes too close for my liking.
Was it even alive, holding poison in its mouth:
a rudder for a tail.
A helpless out of water creature.
Ugly and pulsing – breathing
too much air.
…love that is.
I find myself reading about it and commenting on posts that resonate.
In response to this line…..
may we shape our lives into a lifetime of love (www.67paintings.com) I wrote simply that I liked it and now I find myself here and writing on a day and a date that are meaningful to me. It is a day like all others that started and will shortly end, but it carries meaning that is mine to hold and keep safe.
In response to Millie’s love meter post http://momentswithmillie.wordpress.com)
Just as long as we remember too that there is no limit to love: there is no limit to how many or how much…..as you say by being open to the possibility of it surprising us.
So at the end of a day that did not stretch, but simply passed and was colored somewhat grey for me, due to the unseasonably cold May weather – I find myself in need of creativity and meaning and so I am attempting here to write just a little about the ‘nature of it.’
…love that is and perhaps a little about beauty too if you will indulge this whim to weave some creative spark into my BEing at the close of day.
I commented on http://tuesdayswithlaurie.com in response to her question: what is beauty to you, that to me it was – a pleasing and restful – perhaps gracious place where I rest my eyes for a while and feel warm inside doing so.
so here I am musing about the expanse of love and the uplifting nature of beauty
Perhaps if I were able to somehow join those 2 treasured words together, I would lay my head to rest tonight and BE content and the grayness of a cold May day would drift away with my dreams.
These few words and this picture
are for my Dad.
There is enough love and enough beauty in expressing that alone to let me sleep at peace with me.
.. at sheep beyond the fence- at bleating lambs.
At dandelions and grass: branches sprinkled
At dock and coot and tangled weed.
At silver softly rippled glass.
A vibrant hum of peacefulness just looking
Looking radiant in blue, so heady
I could swim in it and swoon until the sun
hangs back behind the day.
My lovely –
longingly I look and hope to make it last
as long as hours allow.
Placing rosy apples in a floral bowl, you look
at me my lovely.
I bring you flowers.
A scent that lingers as you turn
and leave a trail of blue:
to fetch fresh water,
icy cold and sweet.
You cut each stem with care
submerge them one by one.
I watch you rearrange their loveliness
and place them in the sunlight.
My lovely –
you make each day as radiant as the next:
by simply BEing you –
In the words of my fellow blogger @ 67painting……..We both set out to capture something that was symbolic of Spring, something that made us feel more alive and more in tune with life itself. I feel we achieved that effortlessly and with fun.
We did. I hope that you enjoy the words and the music too and I wish you a wonderful week.
The daylight has lingered on longer than expected, but now the gloom of the short April evening is settling down fast in the wood. The silent and motionless trees rise out of a mysterious shadow, which fills up the spaces between their trunks. Only above, where their delicate outer branches are shown against the dark sky, is there any separation between them?
Somewhere in the deep shadow of the underwood a blackbird calls “ching, ching” before he finally settles himself to roost. In the yew the small birds are already quiet, sheltered by the evergreen spray; they have also sought the ivy-grown trunks. “Twit, twit,” sounds high overhead as one or two belated little creatures, scarcely visible, pass quickly for the cover of the furze on the hill.
Then bird songs lifts me as notes fall from air. They seem to land in my hand. In that moment, as already…
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