John Burroughs said it best: “Harvest with a quiet eye.”
Every morning and every evening, I am serenaded by a very resolute songbird. He/she is perched on a low hanging wire directly outside a window over my kitchen sink. Since I wash all my dishes by hand, from dawn to dusk, I am treated to this small bird’s boisterous concerto for what seems like forever, and long after all the other songbirds have quieted and moved on to their daily chores. Its song is a repetitive two-note high pitch that contrasts with the deep lushness of early summer green behind it. I believe the bird is a Red-Eyed Vireo whose voice fills its whole being from beak to tail tip. And from a far-off somewhere else, is the return song… another Vireo answering the call.
I am lucky to be surrounded by woods and fields and awakened at the high point of songbirds in our area as early as 4:45 AM. No need to set an alarm when the windows are open and light breezes blowing. I consider this a blessing, as it lasts only a few short weeks after the solstice, when the daylight begins to dwindle ever so imperceptibly, and birds that migrate leave nests behind taking their songs with them.
This little guy/gal and I are linked in a daily routine when washing dishes is no longer a chore but a sweet beginning and ending to summer love.
call and response from the woods yet another harvest
“How would you say this more simply and more haikuey” –
“Spring Sunset Gold-Yellow Song Upon The Sky Trumpeting Daffodils?”
How would I? (turn this observation and string into a haiku), is the question asked of me about eight years ago when it was queried, and almost five years since she passed and crossed over the rainbow bridge. I may have tried once, however I was none-too successful. She was my favorite poet, even though she hardly wrote any tailored or even casual poetry. Her words just flowed into “raspberry and tangerine images.” Ours was a forty-year correspondence with a shared love of nature and the arts.
I rediscovered the question on a sticky note in her very distinct handwriting this morning and decided to sit down and finish the conversation. I hope that I can do her proud and know that she is smiling anyway.
For Robin, forever friend – I miss you and your words:
sunset’s golden song ~
a listening sky
ag ~ June 2017
I hope the stars appreciate your special beauty.
“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.'” Pablo Picasso
…and some of us have to become artists in order to learn how to play like children again.
picking out balloons at the party store mesmerized by all the candy
storms of tweets
somehow Stella makes the storm more neighborly
sometimes it takes a storm to bake cookies
almost forsythia a little rain a little snow
imagine simmering pots of fragrant words
cabbage and beans
a garden celebration
of rustic stars
letting go letting g letting lettin lett let
I hate dusting! I’m okay with housecleaning, and I hand wash dishes every day. However, when it comes to dusting, I usually find an excuse to back off like a kid being offered cod liver oil. I usually tend to be seduced by taking photos of dust mites, roses drying on their stems, pillows-on-fire or the dog who resignedly puts up with my in-her-face antics. Anything but dragging a rag over furniture. Thankfully I’m never too concerned with it until you can finger and linger a date on the countertop. All this as a segue into some “let’s capture-the-light-photos.”
lengthening light my muse calls time out!
I watched a rerun on public tv last night of the 1981 Simon and Garfunkel Concert In Central Park. Mayor Ed Koch introduced them. It brought on a huge wave of nostalgia. They looked so young and still seemingly in awe of their audience, time and place in history.
racing to the moon
wildflowers along the way
as time speeds up
a gentle nod to
time = distance
on the way to a star
and on line for a pizza