Mourning ice catches the sun.
a leaf made of ice
stands in the brackish water
a wintry lagoon
where the heron fishes
for his breakfast
in the breaks of the ice
a breeze blows in from
the sun radiates heat from above
and the ice passes away
is no more
as temperatures rise
a taste of summer afternoon
with the wintry morning
as the high tide
takes the last
of winter’s icebound spell
out to sea
In response to today’s prompt from The Daily Post: contrast.
being blown about by the winds
of everyday life
no time for the last small stone
Day 31. Throwing the last small stone of January into the river. I’m sorry to say I had to rush through this last one as my day has been almost filled with appointments. Happily, the last one involves meeting a friend to go hiking and then to dinner so it’s not all dentist and other health-related activities.
It’s been fun, and a good experience for me. Will I continue? I think I will. The small notebook I started to use for this project still has many blank pages left to fill, and I like the idea of taking time out to be mindful of at least one small thing each day. It’s a good practice.
Thank you to Kaspa and Fiona, from whom the idea originated, and to Kel who invited me to join. And thank you to those who stopped by to read and/or comment. I appreciate it.
(Reflections on a Saturday evening in October.)
If we can recognize that change and uncertainty are basic principles, we can greet the future and the transformation we are undergoing with the understanding that we do no know enough to be pessimistic.
~ Hazel Henderson
(Moon and elm. All photos © 2009 by Robin)
Two large elm trees on our property will be coming down as soon as the weather is warm enough and dry enough. They have succumbed to Dutch elm disease. There is no saving the trees as they are quite dead.
(Sun and elm.)
While out on my walk yesterday I took (too) many photographs of them as it seemed to me that these beautiful giants deserve some sort of recognition. They provided shade for us during the hot summer months and a frame for many a gorgeous sunset. Walking near them on a windy day is now a dangerous proposition as branches and large chunks of bark come flying off at amazing speeds.
We would normally leave the trees to die and come down on their own, providing a home for some of the wildlife. However, they’re located near my vegetable garden and I’ve already been hit by small pieces of bark while out there looking around. I’d hate to have half the tree come crashing down on me while I was weeding.
What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
~ Pablo Neruda