Still Water or This, Too, Shall Pass

As I write this on a Tuesday morning for a Wednesday morning post, it is raining a cold, gray, steady rain. Talk about a nasty April thus far. Oh well, at least it is not snow and thank God that John had the foresight (when I did not) to fill that oil tank one more time. Ever notice that the weather can often mirror life's circumstances? It feels like that around here these days. I'm in a cold, gray frame of mind.

Moving right along — this month is poetry month and so I am featuring a poem that speaks to me, though, trust me, I have not reclined on the ground any time lately. 

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the Grace of God, and am free.

~ Wendell Berry
The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry
Source

Now if you check the source, you'll see that I changed things a titch because I don't feel that nature heals me, though I do feel that God created nature for me and you to enjoy. (Truth to tell, I should change it a little more to match my beliefs, but Mr. Berry's poem has been fiddled with quite enough.) 

~lacking a wood drake and hoping that a forced forsythia will do~

Even Jesus had to get away from time to time for prayer and direction. Whenever my mind slips into cold and dark, it's time for getting away or changing things up. Soon the weather will turn and the flowers will bloom and I will not concern myself with a polar vortex. I'll be busy in the garden getting that blanket of leaves off the flower beds and looking forward to all the warmth and beautiful colors. 

P.S. It just donned on me that I should have asked John to write me a poem this year as he did  *here* nearly four years ago. Oh I do love that poem! ☺

God's World

I know. I'm not supposed to be here. I fall back on the old adage that it is a woman's prerogative to change her mind.
Today is so picture perfect that Edna's poem came to mind. 

That bit about let fall no burning leaf? Oh my! I do have a carpet of leaves, and they're not quite as pretty as these taken in 2011. Anyway, that's what I'll be up to next week. 
See you in November! Not so far away now...

comments remain closed

Still There is Peace

It is not lost, the peace we long have sought, Earth holds it safe in spite of blustering man, In spite of wars and all the boundaries bought With terror, blood, and tears since time began. No vaunted missile yet has range to mar The vibrant color harps of Northern Lights, The afterglow of setting sun, or bar Orion's tranquil march across the nights. Still there are hillsides where the maple burns And hemlock trails the deer and foxes know, Still there are purple grapes as fall returns And boughs of golden apples hanging low. Twilight and crescent moon, these shall not cease Though rulers rise and fall—still there is peace.
Leslie Savage Clark

The swish of the leaves was so pleasant that day. I had to take this little movie and share it with you. This poem almost perfectly expresses my thoughts these days. I think often of a blustering man and still I know that there can be peace because God holds it safe.
Over and out for today...at least the lasagnas are made! Wish I could say the same for birthday cake.
Enjoy this day...

Halcyon Days

Not from successful love alone, Nor wealth, nor honor'd middle age, nor victories of politics or war; But as life wanes, and all the turbulent passions calm, As gorgeous, vapory, silent hues cover the evening sky, As softness, fulness, rest, suffuse the frame, like fresher, balmier air,  As the days take on a mellower light, and the apple at last hangs really finish'd and indolent-ripe on the tree, Then for the teeming quietest, happiest days of all! The brooding and blissful halcyon days!
~Walt Whitman

All over Blogdom there are wonderful posts being created for a 31-day series. Many of them involve decorating ideas, which are delightful and I enjoy them.

Two are going to involve some thought-provoking posts. I know this because they already have. You will find them at Creekside Cottage and Thinking About Home. 

A lovely day to you...

So Much Depends...

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

beside the white

chickens

William Carlos Williams 

Poetry 101. I sat in class studying these simple lines and thought how stupid. I was the stupid one. How often these lines have returned to me throughout the years.

So much depends on the yellow forsythia blooming behind the barn...

So much depends on the white foam rolling in on the wave...

So much depends on the you-fill-in-the-blank...

Last Sunday, I thought of it again when I saw this bit of red popping out between the great tree trunks and beyond the rock wall.

so much depends

upon a red bird

house

standing in the 

sun

beyond the gray

rock wall

Go ahead, try it! It's fun.


Thanks to everyone who has tried my challenge. You surprised me and it has tickled me to no end. You're the best!

The Secret

The Secret

We have a secret, just we three,

The robin, and I, and the sweet cherry-tree;

The bird told the tree, and the tree told me,

And nobody knows it but just us three.

But of course the robin knows it best,

Because she built the--I shan't tell the rest;

And laid the four little--something in it--

I'm afraid I shall tell it every minute.

But if the tree and the robin don't peep,

I'll try my best the secret to keep;

Though I know when the little birds fly about

Then the whole secret will be out.

by Anonymous

   Really? I thought it was written by Aileen Fisher, a prolific children's writer. 

    Anyway, if you have three minutes to watch a wonderful time-lapse video of robins raising a family that Dawn at The Feathered Nest has shared, you'll love it. It is only a bit over three minutes long and what a *Sweet Spring Story* it is! 

    The sun is shining so I'm not going to allow difficulties with formatting this morning trouble me. Much. 

Have you ever noticed that spring peepers stop singing every night at about the same time? They are singing their little hearts out when, all of a sudden, and without fading out slowly, they simply stop. Around here it's 10:30 pm. Odd... It's hard to get to sleep when they stop like that. [Edited to Add: You can listen to them at *this site*; you may be surprised to learn what a spring peeper is. You may be surprised because I've mixed apples and oranges today as is my usual habit.]

Noticed anything unusual lately?

John Writes a Poem

Nature rarer uses yellow

Than another hue;

Saves she all of that for sunsets,—

Spending scarlet like a woman,

Yellow she affords

Only scantly and selectly,

Like a lover's words.

~Emily Dickinson

(Gotta wonder if Emily ever saw a dandelion.) Well, that's all good and nice, Emily, but my beloved went into action when he heard me muttering about poets not working much with "forsythia." I could give them some grace, I suppose, for the challenge of such a word.

Forsythia

When it's springtime in Maine

And the weather is in a dither

Hang onto your hat

And go check the forsythia

If the leaves are green

And the flowers are blooming

Get out your lawnmower 

And give it a good tuning.

~John

I love it!

[Edited for the purpose of having the better picture at the top. Let's see if this works.]

~checking the forsythia~

~a little~

~a little more~

~enough~

Yes, more than enough! 

Come on now, tell me, has your beloved ever written a poem for you? 

Poetry in April

Thanks to Pat at Mille Fiori Favoriti, I know that April is National Poetry month. Did she tell you, too? I think that every month is poetry month at MFF because Pat is so good with sharing poetry and photographs that each post is like poetry. True. I try not to flatter preferring praise instead. Pat's blog is praise-worthy. Did you see yesterday's post?

According to Poets dot org, there are thirty things one can do to honor poetry this month. You can find those suggestions *here*, if you are interested. Some are intriguing.

***

It was some time ago now that Leslie Land recommended a book of poetry and memoirs to me: The Wild Braid by Stanley Kunitz with Genine Lentine. The subtitle is "A Poet Reflects on A Century in the Garden." Leslie was encouraging me to think of those centenarians who've arrived at their 100th year with their minds intact, unravaged by bitterness or disease. Mr. Kunitz was such a man and his book is a delightful read; anyone who enjoys a garden or gardening would appreciate his reflections.

Now I wrote the editors of the book a long time ago requesting permission to share this snatch of his poetry. I received no response. Editors are busy. Now I'll just fall back on the old adage: It's easier to do what you want and beg forgiveness later than to request permission.

The city squats on my back.
I am heart-sore, stiff-necked,
exasperated. That's why
I slammed the door,
that's why I tell you now,
In every house of marriage
there's room for an interpreter.

~from Route Six by Stanley Kunitz

Do you want to share your favorite poem with me? Mine is The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost, though I certainly enjoy Edna St. Vincent Millay, Jane Kenyon, Emily Dickinson, even Longfellow. How about you?

A delightful day to you...

A Poem for a Gardener and a Web Site Too

To My American Gardener, With Love

Before the seed there comes the thought of bloom,
The seedbed is the restless mind itself.
Not sun, not soil alone can bring to border
This rush of beauty and this sense of order.
Flowers respond to something in the gardener's face—
Some secret in the heart, some special grace.
Yours were the rains that made the roses grow,
And that is why I love your garden so.

~E.B. White for his wife Katharine on her birthday

Gardens feature often in E.B. White's work along with dogs, weather, ducks, chickens, and, yes, spring pigs, too. If you've never read his essays or his poetry, treat yourself. I'm rereading my collection now. I know that I've spoken of E.B. White's admiration for his wife's gardening *before,* but thought this poem perfect for the first day of spring.



Stumbled upon Leslie Land's web site again this morning...such a good one! She wrote The 3000 Mile Garden along with Roger Phillips. This book was also made into a PBS special that you may remember seeing. I enjoyed the premise immensely, which was about a gardener in Maine — Leslie Land and a gardener in Great Britain — Phillips who correspond and share tips and techniques for growing their respective gardens. Wonder if they still do???

So, if you're interested in gardening tips (and a whole lot more) you can't go wrong to read those included in Leslie's corner. Her recipe section is marvelous, too!

Happy spring to you, Dear One...

Edited to Add: Leslie tried to leave a comment here answering some of my questions and yours. Because of my new settings and trying to weed out spammers, I've weeded out Leslie. Wah! You can find her comments, along with a wonderful crisp crust walnut pie recipe, *here.* She also provided Roger Phillips's web site: Roger's Roses. Thanks, Leslie!

Memorial Day Scenes About Town

Library Reflection

Red Azaleas in My Garden

Flags Wave on Main Street

Flag Flies Over "the Ponderosa"

Civil War Monument in the Town Square

Soldiers Row in the Local Cemetery

The Conclusion

by J. A. Williams

In Flanders field the poppies bloom

Above your lowly, hallowed tomb.

That your brave deeds shall never die

The torch of freedom lifted high

Shall shine forever where you lie.

No more in Flanders fields will grow

The crosses, endless row on row,

For crushed and conquered lies the foe.

We kept the faith—We've seen it thru,

Our myriad brave lie dead with you

In Flanders fields.

Sweet be your rest! Our task is done;

The tramp of armies, boom of gun

And furious cry of savage Hun

Are silent now. The victory's won!

Peace to your souls! The victory's won

In Flanders fields.

This poem was written during the Peace Conference in 1919. It is the fourth poem to be written in response to John D. McCrae's In Flanders Fields. Some day we will see an end to wars. This poem looks forward to that ultimate day when wars will end and no more will die. Amen!

With heartfelt gratitude for every sacrifice made to keep us free. Thank you.