...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.