saturn's rings are little things, torn apart by too much gravity perhaps. no levity would help, i fear. sometimes it is like that here. love and laughter sometimes coincide. and when they do, magic may happen. stuff like love and floral bouquets can be storied, stories unto themselves. we dare not ask; we do not really want to know. saturn's rings are little things, torn apart by too much gravity perhaps.
Red Deer River Valley here was an ocean an ancient shallow sea; great creatures navigated there before you and me. archaic things swam in sandy bottomed shallows sailors in ancient places, where we'll never go again. buried bones have turned to stone millions of years went sliding past it seems so long; it goes so fast. here are bones, when fleshed and live, swam by so long ago. we see them in museums, learning little.
sign of springtime growing wild on a hillside, always impressive, wild things in wild places. snow melt waters cool hillsides, and arrowleaf balsamroot. this year i'll miss the daisies. a time has come to go to distant places, to move along, and find other signs of spring, in other places. adventure seems to beckon; we will go.
it's someplace exotic where i'd like to be again. winds bring us clouds then it starts to rain. green stuff is wonderful, so appealing, i don't know why. it seems a green voice calls seductively and i know that not too many steps, into the green, i'd disappear. smiling.
Blown Peony 2 it looks like this when the petals fall off. each day brings a new surprise. this morning i had to shovel snow. and shout hello to my neighbor. his new puppy came to visit. a puppy's full off play. fuzzy bundle of bounces. i made a friend. new friends are always so full of promise; you never know.
a little of this and a bit of that, all in a bouquet... colour can be so beautiful, she bends and sniffs a flower while i watch, pleased to have seen her. i could never have looked as wonderful or smelled so well the sweet perfume. i can imagine her as a child, delighting her parents, as she smelled the perfume of wild roses
into the unknown, we venture, each day. some things are discoveries, pleasing in every way flowers in tropical gardens, brighten memories, of a time before today's plague descended on us.. whatever disaster, things can be much better than we want to admit. our thirst for knowledge is like orange juice. we can only take so much after all. so there we sit, feeling a little bit foolish, with a two litre jug, barely touched.
some things are not so easy to remember: good days are seldom blurred. people drift in and out of focus, we slide in and out of each other's lives, like ghosts almost and are gone. probably we make life a little more worth living for each other. you can live happily in a comfortable house for many years. we may want to know, does a house ever forget us?
look and see before it goes away. the sun is best just moments before the sky goes dark. she tells me when it hurts so very badly. i see so little, but i try to help, but am helpless. my sorrow is her pain must be hers alone. i cannot feel it, though it tortures me, because i know she is in pain, and i care. the sun is best just moments before the sky goes dark.
my grandfather's uncle saw the green and said so. since then we too have learned to see the green; it surrounds us and many of us see, but some don't; or they say that they don't see, denying reality. some green things are terrific, and feed the world. but others are very deadly, poisonous, as are some toxic people, denyers of the green.