We finally got the spring snowburst we've been waiting for yesterday...about 16 inches! I took this photo this morning as the soft, sweet sun was rising. The sky was glowing like a big cottonball. Our flowers beds are now drunk with happy moisture!My friend, Mary (Maisie's Auntie)...sent me this lovely poem the other day. Seems fitting with spring unfolding...
Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton,
'We are All Writing God's Poem'
'We are All Writing God's Poem'
by Barbara Crooker
Today, the sky's the soft blue of a work shirt washed
a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step. On the interstate listening
to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist
say, "The universe is not only stranger than we
think, it's stranger than we can think." I think
I've driven into spring, as the woods revive
with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy
scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing
sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound,
and aren't we just? Just yesterday,
I read Li Po: "There is no end of things
in the heart," but it seems like things
are always ending--vacation or childhood,
relationships, stores going out of business,
like the one that sold jeans that really fit--
And where do we fit in? How can we get up
in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do,
put one foot after the other, open the window,
make coffee, watch the steam curl up
and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls
in the open window, while the sky turns red violet,
lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons.
The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop
for the thousandth time.
a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step. On the interstate listening
to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist
say, "The universe is not only stranger than we
think, it's stranger than we can think." I think
I've driven into spring, as the woods revive
with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy
scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing
sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound,
and aren't we just? Just yesterday,
I read Li Po: "There is no end of things
in the heart," but it seems like things
are always ending--vacation or childhood,
relationships, stores going out of business,
like the one that sold jeans that really fit--
And where do we fit in? How can we get up
in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do,
put one foot after the other, open the window,
make coffee, watch the steam curl up
and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls
in the open window, while the sky turns red violet,
lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons.
The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop
for the thousandth time.
I'll have a very different dog painting for you to see next week. I'm working on a collaboration with several other Artists who are all donating original paintings for a dog rescue auction. All I can say at this point is Maisie is involved in a mardi gras kind of way. Stay tuned!
Have a nice weekend! xox
