Nearly sunset when I took this photo but then the clouds came in and there was no colour at all but I do like how this one worked.
The wind has beaten down several blooms but that is merely an opportunity to pick them and have them indoors.
We have had Spring-like sunshine and blue skies for four days, though accompanied by cold winds and I was reminded of Billy Collins’ poem, Today. We look forward to the properly warm Spring days with the ‘intermittent warm breezes’ that make us ‘want to throw open all the windows.’ I love the idea of releasing the little inhabitants of the snow domes!
I couldn’t resist posting this for my readers and friends who are poets and for those of you who love poems as much as I do, even though it isn’t Monday and even though I am taking a break. For Kim and Kari in particular.
Monday – Billy Collins
The birds are in their trees, the toast is in the toaster, and the poets are at their windows.
They are at their windows in every section of the tangerine of earth- the Chinese poets looking up at the moon, the American poets gazing out at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.
The clerks are at their desks, the miners are down in their mines, and the poets are looking out their windows maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea, and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.
The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong game of proofreading, glancing back and forth from page to page, the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes, and the poets are at their windows because it is their job for which they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.
Which window it hardly seems to matter though many have a favorite, for there is always something to see- a bird grasping a thin branch, the headlight of a taxi rounding a corner, those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.
The fishermen bob in their boats, the linemen climb their round poles, the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs, and the poets continue to stareat the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.
By now, it should go without saying that what the oven is to the baker and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner, so the window is to the poet.
Just think- before the invention of the window, the poets would have had to put on a jacket and a winter hat to go outside or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.
And when I say a wall, I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper and a sketch of a cow in a frame.
I mean a cold wall of fieldstones, the wall of the medieval sonnet, the original woman’s heart of stone, the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.
1 A friend passed me this recipe that she had cut out of the paper, thinking I might like to try it and it is wonderful – it tastes as good as it looks! I’ll post up the recipe soon. It is vegetarian and could be gluten free very easily.
2 I first met the poetry of Billy Collins when he did a reading at a poetry event and I just loved what I heard. This poem comes from ‘The Art of Drowning’ and I give you just the first verse. It kind of sums up my philosophy – get the best out of every day – find the beauty that is all around you. Look up the rest of the poem here – it is a delight. The last stanza is especially pleasing.
Each one is a gift, no doubt, mysteriously placed in your waking hand or set upon your forehead moments before you open your eyes.
3 Our wall daisies are an enormous mound of pink and white.