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 |    Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
   L'aura del campo 'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos' ♣ Federico García Lorca ♣  L'aura del campo. A breeze in the meadow. So it began the last day of Spring, 2005; on the 16th day of the month of Light of the year 162. This is a supplement to my daily journal written to a friend, my muse; notes I do not share. Here I will share what the breeze has whispered to me. PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS! I L  V COMMENTS!On a practical note, in answer to your questions: IN MEMORIUM VerySara  passed away November 12, 2005 Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings. More suggested links:  These pictures rotate.   Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish |
| Sigulda 1. Sun shines in Sigulda on the stooped shoulders of an old woman purse slung over her back, bag dangling. And on the tall youth, oblivious to age, banging on drums, shouting out the day. Silent geraniums turn deaf ears. Eight-hundred and nine years have passed under the same skies. The Age of Liv and the rage of Martin Luther have passed. White lilacs bloom and bike riders change their clothes. White roses open to blue above. I do not wonder where I wander. I absorb the breeze and jot down my thoughts and stop under an oak to look up at a green sign that tells me what street I'm on: ieta Paegles. 2. How long will the tower hold those bells? Not long, not long, not long enough! The butterfly/worm squirms in its cocoon—wiggles a message to the squeamish and infirm: my time has come to leave you. Molde: Up to Skihytta 3. Blue flowers and a brown bench. The path up up up is no longer smooth and black (asphalt). Now the sound of crushing gravel follows upward. I'd say I'm lost... but could you define that. Birdsong and pine beckon. It's quiet 70 years after this hill town and port was destroyed in a cacophony of bombs and fire. I desire neither. A couple stops. They point the way: always up. 4. Whether you zig this-way-or-that at the end you will rest, perchance to die. If you don't cherish this choice better to have never been born. The contract you signed with your first breath was for better or worse, until... It's more binding than any wedding vow. 5. I am soothed by the passing of those whose walking is done. Whatever path I am on goes somewhere. I comntinue to climb between birch, fern and snags. Violets encroach on the gravel. A jogger runs past—no time to smell them. 6. Two men and a dog; birch thins and I'm reminded of what I see in the mirror. 7. A man pees in the woods and the dappled shade plays among the horsetails. |
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