To this day, color is an enormous delight to me. It means experience, adventure of all kinds. ~Harry Behn, American screenwriter
When
You walk
With a dog
Outside in Spring,
You can’t help but see
That the world around us
Is greening and turning pink,
As new life bursts into color,
Trees shed their spent flowers, and sidewalks
Become magical pathways of beauty.
Note: Poetry form is Etheree.
The return of springtime always brings with it naturally a revival of the sweetest hopes and deepest joys of human nature. The heart of man in springtime is naturally joyous; all nature rejoices around him, and he cannot but participate in the general anthem of thanksgiving, and unite his voice with the universal pæan of praise. ~W. J. Colville, English medium, lecturer, author, 1886
Happy Easter! Can you stand five more photos of Spring? I’ve turned off comments so you can enjoy without having to work too hard!
The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another. The difference between them is sometimes as great as a month. ~Henry Van Dyke, American author, educator, and clergyman
I can’t speak for everyone, but it seems to me that Central Illinois is weather-weary.
Tired of gray days and cold temperatures. Bored by day after day of rain and thunderstorms. Frustrated at the capriciousness of Mother Nature.
Still, on the one pretty day we’ve had since, oh, I don’t know, February or so, the Monk and I managed to get outdoors and look for signs that Spring is on the horizon.
Take a look at what we found!
Every mistake must be paid for, rarely by the person who committed it. ~Jacques Deval, French playwright, screenwriter, and film director
I Monkey here.
Mama says confession is good for the soul. I don’t know about that, but if I can teach another pup NOT to do what I’ve done, then maybe confession is all right.
Don’t thank me — I’m generous like that (or at least, I’m trying to be, it being Lent and all!)
No man has a heart pure enough to interpret the freshness of flowers. ~Auguste Rodin, French sculptor
A
Pretty
Yellow gold
Bulb was blooming
Beneath a large tree
Waiting to be admired
By me and Monk on our walk.
After appreciating it
And checking my plant app for ID,
I learned its name is Winter Aconite.
Native to Europe’s woodlands and meadows,
Part of the buttercup family,
One of Spring’s earliest bloomers,
Winter Aconite attracts
Pollinators, but is
Poisonous to man
And pets, so look,
But don’t touch
It at
All!
Note: Poetry form is Double Etheree.
Miss you still, my beautiful Dallas 11/28/06 – 3/2/20
The summer will bloom into roses,
And laughter will follow your tears;
I linger alone in the shadows
That fell from the beautiful years.
The autumn will shine into harvests,
The grapes will hang purple with wine,
The lark will sing high in the meadow;
The shadow forever is mine…
~Josephine Butterfield Walcott (1840–1906), “Destiny,” World of Song, 1878
The doctor is often more to be feared than the disease. ~Proverb
I Monkey here.
As a rule, Mama is pretty healthy. She takes extra-good care of herself, doing all those things humans are supposed to do — eat right, get enough sleep, exercise, avoid crowds of people coughing.
So it’s a Big Deal when she finally takes sick.
Especially when I Monkey am by nature so needy and, shall we say, anxious for her full attention.
All the time.
He only half dies who leaves an image of himself in his children. ~ Carlo Goldoni, Italian playwright and librettist
Dear Mom,
It’s been a year now since you left this world and entered the next, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss you.
So before long we can open the windows wide and let Spring in, and we can go out to the park or sit on a hillside and let Spring into us. ~Hal Borland, American writer, journalist, and naturalist
Glued to this window
Waiting for Spring (or a cat!)
Enjoying sun’s warmth
The robins were singing vespers in the high tree-tops, filling the golden air with their jubilant voices. ~L. M. Montgomery, Canadian author, Anne of the Island, 1915
An inquisitive
Bird sitting in a tree
Can sometimes seem
Dreamily calm
Even as it’s obviously
Fraught with tension
Giving an observer
Half a chance to wonder
If it is even thinking at all.
Just so, the bird and I are
Kindred spirits
Loving the outdoors
Making music at will
Noticing whatever moves
Oh, how wonderful it must be
Perhaps for a day or more
Quietly flitting from tree to tree
Round about the yard
Settling high in the branches
Taking notice and being noticed
Under the bright sunshine
Volume turned up
With eyes wide open
X-ray vision
You can’t help but admire
Zealous living.
Note: Poetry form is A-B-C Poem.
Musings by an ND Domer's Mom 