Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
L'aura del campo 'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos' ♣ Federico García Lorca ♣ L'aura del campo. A breeze in the meadow. So it began the last day of Spring, 2005; on the 16th day of the month of Light of the year 162. This is a supplement to my daily journal written to a friend, my muse; notes I do not share. Here I will share what the breeze has whispered to me. PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS! I LV COMMENTS! On a practical note, in answer to your questions: IN MEMORIUM VerySara passed away November 12, 2005 Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings. More suggested links: These pictures rotate. Kåre Enga ~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish |
Mole — inspired by Nora Moseman "The snow gives back the sun without the wanton yellow" and my grey fur trembles in my hole. How to say I'm numb if not to note the nothingness of grey. Not one shimmer of silver— just a pall of dust blotting out the vibrancy of living. Once I was a gardener of color: orange cosmos beckoning butterflies, blue globes enticing bees, red trumpets for the hummers. They all visited me. I became a destination for winsome wings. In autumn a tracery of hoarfrost graced my leaves, slowly released reds and yellows from their prisons, attracting those who deigned to dine on one last supper. But that was another lifetime, long-ago. For now it's winter and layer upon layer of cold bears down. Days—grow dim, give way to night. My grey fur shivers in my den. © Kåre Enga [174.184] (20.july.2017) |