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| The pansies from last fall have come back and are starting to bloom. |
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| I continue to count the different varieties of daffodils that I have in the yard and I'm up to twelve. Some of the differences are subtle and don't show well in the pictures. |
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| This bluebird brought materials to help build the nest in this box. No eggs yet. |
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| Bleeding heart. Two weeks ago this was just a white sprout coming up. |
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| The deer have determined that these azaleas need to be "pruned" every day. |
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| The red bud is starting to bloom. |
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| With his messy eating, this squirrel dropped seeds from the suet that these doves ate. |
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| We have grape hyacinth springing up many places away from the bed they were first planted in. I assume that means some critters have been at work. This is one of the transplants. |
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| This is the first time that I have seen one of these nests, but I think that it is a chickadee nest. The fur lining is one of the telltale signs. Six eggs were deposited in it this week. |
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In honor of Earth Day, here's today's poem. It is Looking West from Picnic, Lightning by Billy Collins.
Looking West
by Billy Collins
Just beyond the flower garden at the end of the lawn
the curvature of the earth begins,
sloping down from there
over the length of the country
and the smooth surface of the Pacific
before it continues across the convex rice fields of Asia
and, rising, inclines over Europe
and the bulging, boat-dotted waters of the Atlantic,
finally reaching the other side of the house
where it comes up behind a yellow grove of forsythia
near a dilapidated picnic table,
then passes unerringly under the spot
where I am standing, hands in my pockets,
feet planted firmly on the ground.
the curvature of the earth begins,
sloping down from there
over the length of the country
and the smooth surface of the Pacific
before it continues across the convex rice fields of Asia
and, rising, inclines over Europe
and the bulging, boat-dotted waters of the Atlantic,
finally reaching the other side of the house
where it comes up behind a yellow grove of forsythia
near a dilapidated picnic table,
then passes unerringly under the spot
where I am standing, hands in my pockets,
feet planted firmly on the ground.
You pick out the kind of poetry I like.
ReplyDeleteYour spring blooming is further along than ours but that just means I get to experience it twice--first by looking at your pictures, then in my own yard.
I liked the idea of standing in your yard and imagining going all around the globe. That's why I picked that poem, not to mention that Billy Elliott is a past poet laureate, so there must be something to his work.
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