cardinals coming and going—flying through the slats on the little side porch, eating at the feeder, drinking in the fountain
a single peony shimmering in the morning sun
cups of orange spice tea on cool nights
family gatherings with pineapple popsicles
glasses of deep red wine into the night
cool linen sheets for afternoon naps
I took a photo of the white tulips, a quick shot, a forgotten snap.
The next morning, I posed them on the table adding a canvas to the background, a candle in the foreground, lights on and lights off, an interesting book, some seashells.
In the end the best shot was the simple one I’d taken the day before, as I was headed for the dog leash and a late afternoon walk.
So much of life is like this, where the un-orchestrated is the most pleasing, the image that works.
Note to self: allow things to be themselves, independent, uncluttered and free— people, ideas, love, tulips.
you forgot her—
and it set the course of my life
there you were, sniffing the violets—
your shoulders hunched and your snout long,
your grey fur, a perfect camouflage on a misty spring night
who she is now, is not who she was then — and that is as it should be
youth, sadness and shooting stars,
rainy mornings and happy afternoons,
sometimes a broken heart and sometimes a broken promise,
anger and a small child’s laughter,
a full moon and an autumn breeze,
a late summer sun on fresh flowers,
a day at the lake, a lark, a laugh, a life
At my house, there are books. There are open books, stacks of books, groupings, families, renegades. There are plants and flowers; dried and fresh flowers, long leaves in vases, old pottery with lavender. You may find sticks on the table, or maybe a rock, a wing, pens and pencils, a lipstick, a moth.
There is an old hand-made quilt with a tiny rose print and there is art. Some is mine and some is not mine. There is chocolate and Spanish ham, cheeses, fruit, sometimes wine, sometimes good dark beer and sometimes whiskey. There are little statues of birds and fawns. There is music from the 60’s and 70’s and 90’s; occasionally opera, or Gregorian chants, mostly folk, rock, country, classical guitar.
At my house, there are candles and incense. There is a stained glass lamp with ruby spiders and there are hurricane lamps and sand dollars.
What is your safe place? I was asked recently—and I answered, “my house”.
your green eyes and
the way the sun shone through the pink petals—
Rita’s painted egg and two sand dollars on the toy chest,
Queen Anne’s Lace in the wild lane
where I walked alone on a late summer’s day
August 1850
As my eye rested on the blossom of the meadow–sweet in a hedge, I heard the note of an autumnal cricket, and was penetrated with the sense of autumn. Was it sound? or was it form? or was it scent? or was it flavor? It is now the royal month of August.
The question is not what you look at, but what you see.
Excerpt from the book: The Journal 1837-1861 by Henry David Thoreau
butterflies and dragonflies and dragons (admittedly not far since their wings are often smaller than their bodies)
insects and bats and some squirrels (although in a mostly coasting fashion)
planes and helicopters and some pigs (almost never, but who am I to say?)
imagination and time (not exclusively when having fun) and excuses (some are said to not fly, but the best ones often try)
spanishwoods 