Day 189 – Rushing, Rushing, Rushing

Rushing, Rushing, Rushing

Day 189

Hayeswater by Matthew Arnold

A region desolate and wild.
Black, chafing water: and afloat,
And lonely as a truant child
In a waste wood, a single boat:
No mast, no sails are set thereon;
It moves, but never moveth on:
And welters like a human thing
Amid the wild waves weltering.

Behind, a buried vale doth sleep,
Far down the torrent cleaves its way:
In front the dumb rock rises steep,
A fretted wall of blue and grey;
Of shooting cliff and crumbled stone
With many a wild weed overgrown:
All else, black water: and afloat,
One rood from shore, that single boat.

I found some new brush to explore.  This dam is in a tiny don’tblinkifyouhaveto place called Ontario in Indiana.  I drove by the dirt road leading to it twice before seeing the small brown sign pointing the way.  The road is closed until spring when the weather is inclement, as they do not plow it during snow, but for now it is passable.  I met up with a lone fisherman casting his line over and over while I shot to my heart’s content.  As I was leaving, a farmer came putting down the road on his tractor.  He and the little girl who was riding along gave  me a smile and a wave as we passed by each other.

Day 186 – When There is Frost on the Pumpkin….

When There is Frost on the Pumpkin....

Day 186

Did We abolish Frost by Emily Dickinson

Did We abolish Frost
The Summer would not cease —
If Seasons perish or prevail
Is optional with Us —
Just a shorty poem tonight.  It just seems to fit.
I told myself when I picked this project back up after a break that I would only post one photo per day instead of the 2, 3, 4 and more I was posting.  But today’s photo just wanted to be 3.  This lovely frost was all over the top of the library’s book drop this morning.  I ran to get my camera and snapped three quick shots with 5 minutes to spare before I had to open the doors!

When There is Frost on the Pumpkin....

When There is Frost on the Pumpkin....

Day 185 – At Least it isn’t Snow

At Least it isn't Snow

Day 185

The Night is Darkening Around Me by Emily Bronte

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow ;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow ;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below ;
But nothing drear can move me :
I will not, cannot go.

It has already been a long week.  Too much driving in the long hours after work.  Today’s endless rain has continued on into the night giving the roads a bright glare each time a car approached.  I gave up on my favorite car today, my lovely blue LeSabre – just getting too tired and needing too much attention.  Now a dark blue Park Avenue sits in its place and I think it may just become my new favorite.  It is another thing to give thanks for this week.  I have to say that I am thankful too, that I had this left over shot from the other day because my eye and my shutter finger are just not up to a photo today…

Day 182 – Stark, Stabbing, Barren. Winter Trees.

Stark, Stabbing, Barren. Winter Trees.

Day 182

Winter Trees by William Carlos Williams

All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.
Scott is so small that it doesn’t have a stop light.  It doesn’t have a blinking light, unless you are counting the tail lights of Amish buggies as they slowly clip clop through in the night.  What Scott does have is a UM church, a tiny cemetery, a few farms and a county park with a nifty little covered bridge, a picnic shelter and some hiking trails.  I am not so sure I would dare to walk the trails at this time of the year with the crazy deer hunters out and about, shooting at anything that moves.  I was marginally more comfortable photographing the bridge though, since you can see it from the road (paved!) that passes through Scott.  I shot 8 frames of the bridge from varying angles and brutally pared them down, down, down until I got to three.  And then I couldn’t decide.  So, I am giving myself a camera vacation for the next two days and have decided that I simply must post the other two tomorrow and Monday.  I will not take my camera out with me, I will not take my camera out with me, I will not take my camera out with me.  That is my mantra and I’m sticking with it!

Day 181 – Flying Free

Flying Free

Day 181

The Man Who Touched the Sky by Mike Carson

I want to tell you a story
about the man who touched the sky.
It was Autumn when he reached it,
But the colors still wore fine.

He went down to the willows
and he saw her sitting there,
silently weeping for another
she once had held so dear.

The moon, it was smiling
and said, “There’s no need for fear.
The future you are building,
still lives beneath the stars.”

The man sat down beside her
and asked her where she was,
she answered very brightly, “Inside myself
and questing, searching for a star.”

“See that star right there,” he said,
“the brightest of them all. Look right
and left at stars not quite as bright,
they are far away and hard to see with sight.”

“Forget about your quest for stars,
they all burn out eventually. When
you find the one that can touch the sky,
you will find the universe in his eyes.”

Day 171 – The Look of Things to Come

The Look of Things to Come

Day 171

The Frost-King – Song 1 by Louisa May Alcott

We are sending you, dear flowers
Forth alone to die,
Where your gentle sisters may not weep
O’er the cold graves where you lie;
But you go to bring them fadeless life
In the bright homes where they dwell,
And you softly smile that’t is so,
As we sadly sing farewell.
O plead with gentle words for us,
And whisper tenderly
Of generous love to that cold heart,
And it will answer ye;
And though you fade in a dreary home,
Yet loving hearts will tell
Of the joy and peace that you have given:
Flowers, dear flowers, farewell!

Day 165 – Don’t Walk By

Don't Walk By

Day 165

A Fallen Leaf by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A trusting little leaf of green,
A bold audacious frost;
A rendezvous, a kiss or two,
And youth for ever lost.
Ah, me!
The bitter, bitter cost.

A flaunting patch of vivid red,
That quivers in the sun;
A windy gust, a grave of dust,
The little race is run.
Ah, me!
Were that the only one.

Day 163 – Does it Make a Sound?

Does it Make a Sound?

Day 163

Lost by David Wagoner

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

Day 157 – It Went With the Breeze

It Went With the Breeze

Day 157

Sonnet LXIII: The Gossamer by Charlotte Smith

O’er faded heath-flowers spun, or thorny furze,
The filmy Gossamer is lightly spread;
Waving in every sighing air that stirs,
As Fairy fingers had entwined the thread:
A thousand trembling orbs of lucid dew
Spangle the texture of the fairy loom,
As if soft Sylphs, lamenting as they flew,
Had wept departed Summer’s transient bloom:
But the wind rises, and the turf receives
The glittering web: — So, evanescent, fade
Bright views that Youth with sanguine heart believes:
So vanish schemes of bliss, by Fancy made;
Which, fragile as the fleeting dews of morn,
Leave but the wither’d heath, and barren thorn!

Day 156 – It’s a Pure Kind of Thing

It's a Pure Kind of Thing

Day 156

Evening Waterfall by Carl Sandburg

WHAT was the name you called me?—
And why did you go so soon?

The crows lift their caw on the wind,
And the wind changed and was lonely.

The warblers cry their sleepy-songs
Across the valley gloaming,
Across the cattle-horns of early stars.

Feathers and people in the crotch of a treetop
Throw an evening waterfall of sleepy-songs.

What was the name you called me?