The American writer and naturalist Edwin Way Teale said "The world's favorite season is the spring. All things seem possible in May." Let's hold that thought. In a celebratory show, our young crabapple is putting out wee flowers on stalks.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJ95YeOkiZA_4HXKeCIgMlgfxcAWHOJj1o1ScK_7gpzYXdVl57LZvyqy7-y3_1_Xwul1nTq5RbzTV7XH4gackkKV0i5Iwb4xoOTG4pIzWexy3IzxyMd671KD76IAcwVlzwzR1NivFZp4/s640/IMG_1541.jpeg)
Camille from Boise checked in today—her birthday!—with a photo of the meal her family made for her yesterday. All her favorite foods: asparagus, salmon, and salad.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4-qE5WOHafU3IeHHWJ7XF6lJkLTNvwLtRen3ST3SXN-TL14t7j5fP7G3vIKYEqtw3QrZjXjUyvLHTK11MVrxJb00Fs6HB6oL4mZ_Ek8vBmJv7RlU1h5PWsGtT7UWXF2jE_qXQ5mKN_c/s640/IMG_2202.jpeg)
(Nicely done, family people.)
From Mexico City, Carolina sent this along: My Mexico City balcony. Sketch by Bob Larson.
(This sketch perfectly captures the feeling of sitting right there.) Two months into summer, Carolina's roses are out.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip9asSnNotdDXPwxLya4-t_G3e2-l_fp7Xv2CVTr_mQqiMGlLDbYoeqz6V7MEDFbKYT8rTgYNyQ01-7Ueyh-akqvTJWpDm_MT8oS7eJTy8Q1cF9GMJDMXvtfCaH4YiTKdqKGHy3qonVxw/s640/IMG_0086.jpeg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBphyEJANprhFbfT8g-wPzf2Cy2x2gnVBIXYn65ho0vnU74myJyckTcInGZWbO-A_4AgKpqgbVnrcqrBD7SE_aoMjpjurwyGeJhh7hKMgHxfZ7ed3tioaUFora1pg4Q1FhxJnt2xCuYiA/s640/IMG_0094.jpeg)
Sign of the times
(via Rob in Chicago)
Poetry
During Wind and Rain--By Thomas Hardy
They sing their dearest songs—
He, she, all of them—yea,
Treble and tenor and bass,
And one to play;
With the candles mooning each face. . . .
Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!
They clear the creeping moss—
Elders and juniors—aye,
Making the pathways neat
And the garden gay;
And they build a shady seat. . . .
Ah, no; the years, the years,
See, the white storm-birds wing across.
They are blithely breakfasting all—
Men and maidens—yea,
Under the summer tree,
With a glimpse of the bay,
While pet fowl come to the knee. . . .
Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.
They change to a high new house,
He, she, all of them—aye,
Clocks and carpets and chairs
On the lawn all day,
And brightest things that are theirs. . . .
Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.
Beauty and the beast (my gardening hands)
Music
From NZ, Alayna
No comments:
Post a Comment