February 19, 2014

...just chasing after some finer day

We can never know about the days to come
But we think about them anyway
And I wonder if I'm really with you now
Or just chasing after some finer day.
Anticipation...is keeping me waiting...
Does anyone remember this great Carly Simon song?  It was later used in a memorable ketchup advertisement:

Driving home from work last night I found myself singing the lyrics--"thinking about the days to come" and "chasing after some fine(r) day" and I realized the words definitely applied to my anticipation of the arrival of spring this year.  I know I am not alone in wishing the snow would melt and the grass would start green and that certain spring light would reappear.  I thought it might be fun to start tracking spring's arrival with a few of my favorite views from my windows.  So each Wednesday I'm going to post some pictures of the same scenes and let's anticipate spring's arrival together!

View of my favorite backyard tree from my bedroom window.  It shelters all kinds of animals in and under its boughs!
View of my tiger lily rock garden, as seen from my living room bay window.  At the moment, you can't see tiger lilies or rocks, but you can catch a glimpse of my poor little armillary buried in the snow at the very right.
And finally, my poor little solar light that anchors my front garden by the walkway to the house.  This picture was taken looking out my front door.

So check back next week and let's see if there have been any changes!  I'll leave you today with another lovely poem from Mary Oliver.  Have a wonderful day!

 White Eyes
In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.
I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—
which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.



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