The Calendar Changed

 

When the first day of the month arrives, my calendars I should go forth and change them.  No, I do not go forth and change the months.  It is nor until I look at days to try and schedule things do I realize I have not changed. 

I have become so spoiled by the puter that I seldom use a calendar any more.  In my gadgets bar I have a clock plus a calendar, day and month.  So when I turn the machine on all this nice information jumps up on the screen and says hi.

So the wall calendars tend to collect dust hanging from their hooks.  This year I got a bunch of calendars and probably could get some more.  Lots of the local businesses are giving out calendars and I have collected a pretty varied group of pictures to hang on the wall.

 

The days of life march past and I am but one little character in the play of life.  So as my chapters unfold I desire to enjoy them. 

There are a few events that happen I want to remember, otherwise the days melt into each other.  Passing as ships in a fog but hearing the chimes of the bells floating past.

The snow if passing in front of the wind, a touch of white patches the brown grasses of the dormant ground.  Birds huddle in the trees, search the rafters for protection seldom venturing out.  The hawk of the north has sent it icy breath across the prairies.  Soon the eve will arrive and the calendar will mark another day.

Water Springs Forth

Snow is cursed by so many, yet it a fount of life that carries many through the parched summer.  High in the mountains snow fills the ridges, covers the valleys and caps the trees, making a vista to be in awe of.  But that very snow feeds the rivulets that cascade down the hills. oozing under ground.

Wind whipped snow sends all scurrying for protection.  Grasses are covered, bushes peek out and trees sway to the extra weight.  The damage of the snow is the renewal of spring.  Moisture in the shite stuff ushers forth the green fresh plants to blossom in glory.

For miles this moisture can travel underground to sprout forth in tiny puddles.  Gushing springs heave forth to nourish the ground.  Last years snow flows up out of the dirt.

A tiny wet spot oozes out of the ground.  Tumbles down the hillside to nourish a few plants to sink back in the ground.

A small ribbon of green marks the spot where the water flows.  Returning back to the earth to resurface in a another location.

Here the animals found water to slake their thirst.  Not more then a mud hole but pools enough of water.  Hundreds of miles away are the mountains but underneath the ground are streams of a different nature.  Water travels through the sandy rocks for miles to seep out of the ground at another place.  Creating a small garden on the parched prairie.

Indians knew of these places.  here they would find the animals for their food, plants for their food and water for their thirst. 

What appears to be barren land, the starkness in broken by a few trees.  On far hillside a small grove of trees mark a spring.  The hillside is an escarpment revealing where the formations of the mountains is exposed.  Over many miles this formation rises.  Springs ease forth along the escarpment, giving life to the land.

Small ponds create a micro system of life that would not be without the snow.  This water may of fell a number of years ago as it traveled under the earth.  Following a path the eye can not discern.

There are many springs in life.  What ushers forth, has it been there for years, has it been dammed or is waiting for release.

Peace like a river runs through it.

Summer Poesies

Every Summer I put out petunias and other flowers in planters.  They get fed, watered and pruned through out the summer.  This year they grew out of the planters.  I put some moss roses in with them and they almost took over.  In among the roses are the petunias.  This year has been one of my best for flowers in the planters.

 

Have a great week and I hope you had a great weekend.

Passing Sun

 

With time the cycle rolls around.  The sun moves from north to the south.  Colors change. clouds float, ever changing, a motion that is ever changing but always the same. 

 

Into the eve ole man sol travels.  On the morrow he shall return.  Light, warmth and life he carries. 

His days are not numbered.  Measurement comes from his location.  Across the horizon rays reach their fingers.  Touching caressing…. bringing life’s warmth.  The same each day, a pattern that changes to be the same.

Steps I measure out no length, without direction.  Leading to where.  Prints left behind.  Frozen in a moment.  Briefly forgotten, rediscovered, where to look.  Was it lost, misplaced or hidden.

The march continues, following a rhythm few hear or see.

Gather me up.  Warp me in your warmth.

Carry me.