Day 364 – Last Call

Last Call

Day 364

Sitting by a Bush in Broad Sunlight by Robert Frost

When I spread out my hand here today,
I catch no more than a ray
To feel of between thumb and fingers;
No lasting effect of it lingers.

There was one time and only the one
When dust really took in the sun;
And from that one intake of fire
All creatures still warmly suspire.

And if men have watched a long time
And never seen sun-smitten slime
Again come to life and crawl off,
We not be too ready to scoff.

God once declared he was true
And then took the veil and withdrew,
And remember how final a hush
Then descended of old on the bush.

God once spoke to people by name.
The sun once imparted its flame.
One impulse persists as our breath;
The other persists as our faith.

•••
Second to the last day, posted on the same day as the final shot.  The anticipation is KILLING me!!
•••

Fuzzy Logic

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Day 361 – Sunday Night

Sunday Night

Day 361

The Frog and the Golden Ball by Robert Graves

She let her golden ball fall down the well
And begged a cold frog to retrieve it;
For which she kissed his ugly, gaping mouth –
Indeed, he could scarce believe it.

And seeing him transformed to his princely shape,
Who had been by hags enchanted,
She knew she could never love another man
Nor by any fate be daunted.

But what would her royal father and mother say?
They had promised her in marriage
To a cousin whose wide kingdom marched with theirs,
Who rode in a jeweled carriage.

‘Our plight, dear heart, would appear past human hope
To all except you and me: to all
Who have never swum as a frog in a dark well
Or have lost a golden ball.’

‘What then shall we do now?’ she asked her lover.
He kissed her again, and said:
‘Is magic of love less powerful at your Court
Than at this green well-head?’

Day 359 – Mother’s Day Comes Once Again

Mother’s Day Comes Once Again

Day 359

The Mother by Robert William Service

Your children grow from you apart,
Afar and still afar;
And yet it should rejoice your heart
To see how glad they are;
In school and sport, in work and play,
And last, in wedded bliss
How others claim with joy to-day
The lips you used to kiss.

Your children distant will become,
And wide the gulf will grow;
The lips of loving will be dumb,
The trust you used to know
Will in another’s heart repose,
Another’s voice will cheer . . .
And you will fondle baby clothes
And brush away a tear.

But though you are estranged almost,
And often lost to view,
How you will see a little ghost
Who ran to cling to you!
Yet maybe children’s children will
Caress you with a smile . . .
Grandmother love will bless you still,–
Well, just a little while.

Day 354 – I Have Roots

I Have Roots

Day 354

from Moths of the Limberlost by Gene Stratton-Porter

To me the Limberlost is a word with which to conjure; a spot wherein to revel. The swamp lies in north-eastern Indiana, nearly one hundred miles south of the Michigan line and ten west of the Ohio. In its day it covered a large area. When I arrived; there were miles of unbroken forest, lakes provided with boats for navigation, streams of running water, the roads around the edges corduroy, made by felling and sinking large trees in the muck. Then the Winter Swamp had all the lacy exquisite beauty of such locations when snow and frost draped, while from May until October it was practically tropical jungle. From it I have sent to scientists flowers and vines not then classified and illustrated in our botanies.

It was a piece of forethought to work unceasingly at that time, for soon commerce attacked the swamp and began its usual process of devastation. Canadian lumbermen came seeking tall straight timber for ship masts and tough heavy trees for beams. Grand Rapids followed and stripped the forest of hard wood for fine furniture, and through my experience with the lumber men “Freckles”‘ story was written. Afterward hoop and stave men and local mills took the best of the soft wood. Then a ditch, in reality a canal, was dredged across the north end through, my best territory, and that carried the water to the Wabash River until oil men could enter the swamp. From that time the wealth they drew to the surface constantly materialized in macadamized roads, cosy homes, and big farms of unsurpassed richness, suitable for growing onions, celery, sugar beets, corn and potatoes, as repeatedly has been explained in everything I have written of the place. Now, the Limberlost exists only in ragged spots and patches, but so rich was it in the beginning that there is yet a wealth of work for a lifetime remaining to me in these, and river thickets. I ask no better hunting grounds for birds, moths, and flowers. The fine roads are a convenience, and settled farms a protection, to be taken into consideration, when bewailing its dismantling.

It is quite true that “One man’s meat is another’s poison.” When poor Limber, lost and starving in the fastnesses of the swamp, gave to it a name, afterward to be on the lips of millions; to him it was deadly poison. To me it has been of unspeakable interest, unceasing work of joyous nature, and meat in full measure, with occasional sweetbreads by way of a treat.

•••

This photo was taken in what is left of Gene Stratton-Porter’s forest, at the shore of Sylvan Lake in Rome City, IN.  Truly a remarkable place, it is peaceful even as it sits beside a “fast” lake.

Day 346 – Look at Me

Look at Me

Day 346

When I shoot a photo tomorrow evening, it will be the final photo of this project.  I have been dragging my feet about getting 346 – 364 posted; maybe I am postponing the inevitable, or more likely I am just lazy and spending too much time playing games on my iPhone – Words With Friends and Draw Something have me hook, line and sinker….  In either case, I am just posting the one photo tonight, or should I say, this morning (?) as it is almost 1:00 am and I am just plain pooped – tonight a book has been distracting me:  a nice bit of camp in a book titled Dark Shadows:  Angelique’s Descent by none other than the original Angelique, Lara Parker – prurient curiosity led me to read it, however it is an engaging story, if a bit on the dark (pun intended) side.

Until tomorrow…..  and a word of warning, lazy Cyndi has let the flowers do all of the work – I went out day after day and shot flower after flower because I just didn’t feel like “working” on anything that would make me have to think, which would therefore force large amounts of black smoke to pour from my ears.  I think it was a good compromise.