For the Love of Dirt: March 2023

Wednesday, March 29, 2023

THE EDGE of LIGHT

The dark breathed it’s last breath.

It fell into the abyss of what once was and what was.

And the dark held no power.

In the cloister it rolled away from the sun.

Its gleaming light wound its way through the castle

And the dark sighed.

The scent of old fell away.

Weary eyes watched as it drifted

Into the abyss of what once was and what was.

And touched the edge of light. And held on.

The scent of what was old gave way to what was new.

And the dark held no power.

Only radiant fire.

It shoved the night away. Plunged through the curtain.

Through the abyss of what once was and what was.

The door was open wide.

Set fire to your dark.

Become a child of light…..

Photographs 2023

Sunday, March 26, 2023

WISDOM

WISDOM by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

It was a night of early spring

The winter sleep was scarcely broken

Around us shadows and the wind

Listened for what was never spoken

Though half a score of years are gone,

Spring comes as sharply now as then..............

But if we had it all to do

It would be done the same again.

It was a spring.........

that never came,

But we have lived enough to know

What we have never had, remains.....

It is the things we have that go............

Photographs 2023

Monday, March 20, 2023

YELLOW BOOTS

"Can words describe the fragrance of the very breath of spring.." -Neltje Blanchan

He wore yellow boots. For the first day of spring. New boots that smacked and splashed. He stomped and ran. They made a squelching sound. He liked that.

They were to jump in mud puddles. To wear on walks, down the road , down the paths still sodden with rain and crocuses. Paths and lanes of purple and yellow crocus. He picked bunches of them, only to see them wilt in his hands.

One path led to a long, low beach. Where the tide ran and crested along the sands.

He loved it here. He would take off his yellow boots and run after seagulls dozing by the shore.

He liked to take sand in his grubby , little hands and dump it into the boots, stuffing little shells way down into its sole. Sometimes little creatures found their way into his boots.

Then he'd wear them, full of sand, to march around and hum little songs that his mother sang to him.

That spring, his yellow boots were his companions to make believe.

Once the colour of the sun, they grew dingy, torn at the edges. Filled with sand and rocks. He grew tired of them.

It was in the summer that he left one yellow boot in the rocks by the shore. He couldn't find it. It floated out to sea. He went home with one yellow boot.

Spring and summer came and went . He forgot about that yellow boot. He didn't play in sand anymore.

He grew and was grown. He went to school. He forgot his old life.

Didn't remember the souls of beautiful things crying out like Naiads in the sea. He got tired of work. He was weary .

Until one year, he returned, in the moonlight turned to dawn. He was still thirsty. Not for water, but for that which was beyond all understanding. He felt that impulsive pull in the drowsy morning, where all was new again.

And he remembered . He knew why he was called here. Even though the earth was still bare, he found himself, taking off his boots, to stick his feet in the sand. To remember what it was like to not be weary.

He watched the sky paint itself with lavender, finding he now did not thirst....

“Following dark winter's strife, a warm air rises, teemed with life. Birth, rebirth, as the waiting die. Old love, new love sprouts wings to fly.”
― Phar West Nagle