rosy** colored dawn

Behold this morning's sky as the sun rose above the lake near us. Pink was the color today!

Rosy comes from the Latin 'roseus' meaning rosy or pink. Incidentally the poet Lucretius used rosy to describe the dawn in his six book epic On the Nature of Things [De Rerum Natura] written in the first century BC. 

I'm happy to include this Minnesota dawn with all the other skies posted at Skywatch Friday.

welcome back!

I heard you call this morning

And I remember how your red epaulets

Quiver with each chorus.

You’ve found your way back.

Intrepid and weightless,

Eyes on the night

You’re like adult children returning from school.

Is this home or are you coming from home?

Overhead, your wings push out a formation

Then land on dollops of ice and water

The yin and yan of many lakes’

Spreading girth.

Remembering, I laugh out loud

And welcome the healing

In your clever industry

And your lusty song.

One of my favorite times in early spring is when the Red Wing blackbirds show up in the marshy areas among the cattails. This guy was trying to lure me away from their nesting area. His red epaulets are striking against his all black body. See more red here. 

the road not taken

I was walking to Caribou yesterday for coffee when I found this written on my path by some ambitious, thoughtful poetry lover. It made my day 100% more beautiful for the reminder. And take note of 'the yellow wood.'

I have seen the most beautiful bleeding hearts in my travels and now the lilies of the valley are peeking out from spring's tender greens.

See more beauty at Today's Flowers, a virtual flower shop.

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

walk softly

I wish it to be so
To inhabit the world with my heart,
and not my ears. Just knowing.

When the sap loosens and there is a groaning
In the top branches
Does the whole stand reply in silence ?

Her tail flashes and her spotted-one listens.
Their fear is quelled by recollection
of the meadow
and their own salty runestone.

Behind velvet eyes,
Pain and beauty coexist; without my words.
They feast on wild plum trees.
I wish to be
free of my desire to give them a name.

My contribution to Camera Critters during this busy, magical time of year. . .a deer in the brush at Snail Lake on the day after Thanksgiving. The only sounds I heard were of tiny chickadees and then familiar crunching of leaves and sticks under tiny hooves. There she was with the new sun coming up on her winter meadow. I've included a poem from earlier times that filled my heart when I saw 'summer deer' feasting on wild plums.

Visit Misty Dawn's meme Camera Critters for more animal pleasures. Happy December Weekend, my bloggy friends!

'The melancholy days are come'. . .

Halloween day began with snow flurries but ended with sunshine and bright blue skies. So I took a windy walk, crunching leaves, soaking up the sun I hadn't seen most of the week, and found glorious reds in the trees.See more autumnal reds at Mary's meme, Ruby Tuesday.

The morns are meeker than they were,

The nuts are getting brown;

The berry's cheek is plumper,

The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,

The field a scarlet gown.

Lest I should be old-fashioned,

I'll put a trinket on.

Emily Dickinson

Saturday comes early

Morning
by Billy Collins

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins—
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.

'sitting on the shore'

I've been reading the latest book of poetry by my favorite poet, Mary Oliver called Evidence. Her active observations of nature in her amazing voice without fail make me long to be outdoors. At the very least, she makes my heart sing. My favorite so far:

Almost a Conversation

I have not really, not yet, talked with otter
about his life.

He has so many teeth, he has trouble
with vowels.

Wherefore our understanding
is all body expression--

he swims like the sleekest fish,
he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.
Little by little he trusts my eyes
and my curious body sitting on the shore.

Sometimes he comes close.
I admire his whiskers
and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.

He has no words, still what he tells about his life
is clear.
He does not own a computer.
He imagines the river will last forever.
He does not envy the dry house I live in.
He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.
He wonders, morning after morning, that the river
is so cold and fresh and alive, and still
I don't jump in.

Y

A language of silence.

I wish it to be so
To inhabit the world with my heart,
and not my ears. Just knowing.

When the sap loosens and there is a groaning
In the top branches
Does the whole stand reply in silence ?

Her tail flashes and her spotted-one listens.
Their fear is quelled by recollection
of the meadow
and their own salty runestone.

Behind velvet eyes,
Pain and beauty coexist; without my words.
They feast on wild plum trees.
I wish to be
free of my desire to give them a name.

Visit Sunday Scribblings for more answers to the prompt, Language.

Phantoms & Shadows

You said, ‘She’s got the map of Japan all over her face.’
But when I looked up at her I only saw skin.

My welted, wet face reminded you of a big, fat Indian squaw.

I thought we were Italians.

Shineola, blue gums, Sambo?

They’re only shoe polish, Halloween teeth and pancakes to me.

Like watermelon seeds, you spit out ‘Those kraut bastards!’

cleverly confusing your wife’s blond hair and blue eyes

with the sauerkraut barrel.

Filthy gypsies, no-good Greeks, yellow Chinks:
Your mother taught you that people are mean.
In embracing her, even to the grave,
You set this legacy spinning into the next generation’s fragile orbit.

If you could see how hard I’ve tried to dispel these lies,
your ideas like an unopened gift left behind
Would you be proud of me?

You can rest now in the gathered satin of your apathy

knowing I have slowly untangled the knots that were once given to you.
But at what price?

~~~

After the past campaign, my living in south Chicago for fourteen years, and finally in seeing history being made at last week's inauguration, I have jotted down these few thoughts. Presumably the are submitted to Sunday Scribblings--late again--but more importantly as a note to my daughters and future members of our family: I didn't get here overnight!

[collage photos from Bannock County archives
of Asians in Idaho in the 20th century,
when my dad was growing up]

All the sweetness

[please enlarge for better glimpse]

Today I'm dreaming of the delicious fragrance of sweet peas--which, along with the heady aroma of honeysuckle vines, I wish came distilled in a spray bottle for winter wear. These photos are from my first two seasons in our apartment when I actually had success growing these lovely flowers, believed to have first been spotted in Sicily by Franciscan monk named Francisco Cupani . The pink & blues were called Erica's Choice and I've forgotten the red's except for their perfect blue-red hues.

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white
And taper fingers clutching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.
John Keats

Visit Today's Flowers for more virtual bouquets.
Happy Monday!

ABC Wednesday--ironing day

ABC Wednesday arrived with N as the letter of the week. I'm a little late but don't want to miss adding my favorite N. . .N for Pablo Neruda, a poet I enjoy reading. I've added one short poem below with a 'white' motif and some photos to illustrate his words. You can mouse -over Neruda's photo for a biography of his very interesting life.


ODE to IRONING

Poetry is white
it comes dripping out of the water
it gets wrinkled and piles up
We have to stretch out the skin of this planet
We have to iron the sea in its whiteness
The hands go on and on
and so things are made
the hands make the world every day
fire unites with steel
linen, canvas and calico come back from
combat in the laundry and from the light
a dove is born
purity comes back from the soap suds.

[ Translated by Jodey Bateman]
Visit Mrs Nesbitt here to see more varied and wonderful N posts.

Scribblings and tangential curves on Sunday

Last night as I floated above the treetops
Clouds were forming to the north
Grace gazed at the river’s edge
Shaking out her skirt, small birds flew
And with their beaks wrote new chapters
From the ink the river spilled under the stars.


On pristine ice I made figure eights
While Grace gathered from those clouds
Sweet children
From her plaits she released blue ribbons
And tied sashes and curving hair bows for each
Then into one ear, and the next she whispered,

Take heart, my dear one
You’ll find your own story I’ve kept
Page after page, book after book
Ink barely dry.

Third cousins will become first,
You are related and dear.

Melancholy dawn and slumber’s end
It was time for me to sweep up fallen stars
Release the lambs and ewes
And close the elephant’s gate.
On the lintel
My key to the day hung from a new blue ribbon.


My sleepy thoughts on the prompt 'curve' for Sunday Scribblings. See more curves here.

By slow Meander's margent green, & in the violet-embroidered vale.

My walks so far this week have figuratively unearthed little clumps of violets and patches of Jacob's Ladder, [I think] along Como Lake. Best of all, robins are flying overhead with mouthsful of wiggly worms--and you know what that means!
In the lake were many goslings from proud and aggressively wary Canada geese and one large bobbing batch of Mallard ducklings. As I walked I bothered all manner of wrens, nuthatches, chickadees and two varieties of swallows--all way too quick to sketch. The goslings were hard enough.
When I first moved to Minnesota, a friend said that spring happens overnight, just like September turns to autumn overnight--she was right. Verdant greens, flowering trees and lilacs ready to explode are everywhere.
~~

I thought that spring must last forevermore

For I was young and loved, and it was May.

by Vera Brittain

from "May Morning" -- May 1916

Vera Brittain English writer, poet, pacifist

Soul in the updraft

Your music cracks my heart open
Taking my spine two stairs at a time
Leaving every door ajar
Colors alight with hollow bones

Aching melodies spin
Crinoline clouds weep
Freedom,
Granted and received

Truth and wonders
Are the fragrant petals
You toss through the gap-toothed
Windows of my soul.

~~

Based on a prompt of 'soar' for Sunday Scribblings, my gratitude to Ludwig van Beethoven for his short, sweet Symphony No. 6, Pastoral, which causes a mighty separation of soul and body every time I listen. Listen to my favorite, the fourth movement here.

[The graphic above is from a painting called "The Bedroom"--1658/1600 by Dutch painter Pieter de Hooch.]

Be still, my heart!

I heard you call this morning
And I remember how your red epaulets
Quiver with each chorus.
You’re back!

Intrepid and weightless,
Eyes on the night
You’re like adult children returning from school.
Is this home or are you coming from home?

Overhead your wings push out a formation
Then land on dollops of ice and water--
The yin and yan of many lakes’
Spreading girth.

Remembering, I laugh out loud
And welcome the healing
In your clever industry
And your lusty song.

When thou seest an eagle,

thou seest a portion of genius;

lift up thy head!

William Blake