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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 |
| Snowfields Árnica will not bloom this year and árabis lies dormant between cold pebbles. Life sleeps through Summer snug under white blankets oblivious of sunshine. Snowfields do not turn to ice with the weight of centuries that grind the ground into a glacial gravel, grit and sand. And so you sleep each night surrounded by a bed of feathers beyond the warmth of my touch that cannot not reach you Som soleie og sildre you will wait for Spring. If not this year—next. © Kåre Enga [174.323] (17.januar.2017) Soleie = buttercups; Sildre = saxifrage (rockfoil). Line could read... like buttercups and saxifrage... Arica (wolfbane is one) and Arabis (rockcress) In Norwegian to be edited. Árnica vil ikke blomstre i år og árabis ligger sovende mellom kalde småstein. Livet sover gjennom sommeren tettsittende under hvite tepper uvitende om solskinn. Snøfelt vender seg ikke til is med vekten av århundrer som grinder bakken til en isbreen grus, grus og sand. Og så sover du hver natt omgitt av en seng av fjær utover varmen min berøring det kan ikke nå deg Som soleie og sildre du vil vente på våren. Hvis ikke dette året neste. (Hvis ikke i år, det neste.) På nynorsk (Apertium): Snøfelt Árnica vil ikkje blomstra i år og árabis ligg sovande mellom kalde småstein. Livet søv gjennom sommaren tettsittende under kvite teppe uvitande om solskin. Snøfelt vender seg ikkje til is med vekta av århundre som grinder bakken til ein isbreen grus, grus og sand. Og så søv du kvar natt omgjeve av ei seng av fjør utover varmen min berøring det kan ikkje no deg Som soleie og sildra du vil venta på våren. Viss ikkje dette året neste. (Viss ikkje i år, det neste.) |
| Montana's wintry tongue Wind's language whispers with ponderosa, passes through my errant thoughts but never speaks clear enough for me to parse its wisdom. On mountaintops one sees forever, yet here in valleys they block all views. And grey skies glower and depress my soul into infertile sand as fickle icy waters pass below me, mere trickles of conversation almost heard in this quiet place that binds me until that day I gladly leave. © Kåre Enga [174.325] (18.january.2018) |
| "Weight of an infinite sky" Thoughts soared with each passing flock of snow-geese to never settle down again. Unlike flakes that blew across dusty Nebraska fields to lie below thin coatings of dust by fence posts filling ditches four inches deep that in the shadows congealed to dirty ice. Nothing ever came back until Spring's melt—and even then— once freed—seldom returned. In the weightless drift of a vacant sky thoughts soared forever. © Kåre Enga [174.326] (18.january.2017) Note: "Weight of an Infinite Sky" is the title of a book of prose and poetry by Carrie Le Seur. 83.091 |
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