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!!
I didn’t realize that I had taken so many photos of dandelion seeds! This is the last of them!
It Doesn't Smell as Good as it Looks
Purple — is fashionable twice — by Emily Dickinson
Purple — is fashionable twice —
This season of the year,
And when a soul perceives itself
To be an Emperor.
Short but sweet as I am, once again, running behind! Gosh, I wish I could catch up, if only for a little while! Egad!
Nature rarer uses Yellow by Emily Dickinson
Nature rarer uses Yellow
Than another Hue.
Saves she all of that for Sunsets
Prodigal of Blue
Spending Scarlet, like a Woman
Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly
Like a Lover’s Words.
“What are ya? Yellah?”
“Ya, yellah-bellied sap sucker!”
They call me Mellow Yellow. Quite right.”
“Everything that is yellow is not gold.”
“Don’t eat yellow snow.”
“Silence is not always golden; sometimes it is yellow.”
“If it’s yellow let it mellow…if it’s brown flush it down!!”
If you are like me, yellow conjures feelings of warmth, of sunshine and of happiness. Yellow is the dress I wore in 5th grade; pale yellow with chiffon accordion-pleated sleeves and every girl I knew wanted that dress. Yellow is the tree in my mother’s yard that in the fall makes everything glow under the gray skies. Yellow is the color of permanence and commitment in a band around my finger. Yellow is tart and crisp in an apple pie and in a lemon meringue pie. Yellow is the scent of a narcissus in the spring air.
Yellow is unappreciated, I think – it isn’t as flashy and bold as red, orange and purple, as calming as blue and green and it has the reputation of being cowardly. But maybe we are all confusing yellow’s sensitivity with fear; yellow is unassuming and doesn’t mind letting the other colors hog the spotlight. It will be right there, tucked away and at the ready, when we need a bit of warmth.
“There is no blue without yellow and without orange.” ~ Vincent Van Gogh
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.”
It Went With the Breeze
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!