Blue Squills 0 0 0 How many million Aprils came Before I ever knew How white a cherry bough could be, A bed of squills, how blue! 00000000 Sara Teasdale
I was walking along the river today and thinking of all past Springs in my life — forgotten as well as those well remembered. They melt together into one fragrant Spring full of sunshine and birds song with some streaks of bitter sweet memories.
I just read my friend Maitri's blogMagic & Moments at Dragonfly Cottage. I'm not a writer and I only have one cat — but what a cat! — but how familiar her thoughts on writing are. I write mental masterpieces when I'm walking, cooking or working in the garden — but do you think I'm able to get it down on paper, or the screen, when I finally sit down. The big difference is that I'm not so sure that I look like a normal person when I compose my imperishable literary opus.
This morning when I was pleasently floating in and out of a now forgotten dream, it occured to me that I haven't left a link toSoup's On — so here it is.
Embrace change even if you want to run from it. Ralph Shrader
stugkatt at yahoo dot com
It is easier to say what and who I'm not. — I'm not my profession — I'm not my salay — I'm not my age — I'm not my illness — I'm not my civil status So who am I? — a person just the right size and age — an untidy pedant — a conservative radical And what do I do? — weave — read — listen to music, classical preferably baroque