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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 |
| Down the old gravel road There was a house where my uncle lived, where my grandmother before him took in my mother, 12 and homeless, her father having lost it all, ill with carbuncles, her mother coping, her sister taking on the chores of raising the kids, until they all left, fled, until she too found a way out. Years later, my mother followed. And there-in lies the tale, truth or not, my grandparents' white house sitting on the hillside, my uncle still around the corner, the lilacs, the hollyhocks, the garden under the willow, the red cardinal flying overhead, my grandfather's bird, while we picked orange nasturtiums planted in white painted tires, to give to my grandmother, maker of bread, maker of split-pea soup. My parents are part of this too, but I can't remember. It was summer, I slept in the cool basement, I used the porcelain pot to pee, too young to climb the red sidewalk at night, to find the two-seated outhouse in the dark. © Kåre Enga [19.January.2017] |
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