There's something sad watching the birds forage for this and that as we come closer to Winter's peak: a beautiful poem.
You remind me of these lines by John Freeman, a favourite poet of mine, in his poem The Birds of Rhiannon:But later, bluetits - not leaves - three of them,shoot from tree to tree, with their pretty crests,tight bundles of hot energy and purposein the damn cold and the apparent aimlessnessof the still vistas and motionless tall trees.How the heart, in longing to be more like them,and feeling nevertheless how the seasonduels with each of them to the death -bird or frozenness, which will last longer?-Thanks, WB.
my dear......so written for me tonight.....a Divine Hand moving yours.......The last two days the message "Let Go" has come to me six ways from Sunday.....and here it is again.......I'm speechless. With my home's namesake in the title, no less.....thanks, Jonathan, as always.....from this Virginia girl
I'm glad you spotted the 'let go' line. Thank you very much, Liz.
...and your poem here in your comment to W.B........wish me well against the frozenness, Jonathan.......I'll wish you well too...........
John Freeman is a fine, fine poet. As is WB.Keep warm. Thank you for sending good wishes my way.
Magic, essence of autumn - 'Les sanglots longs des violons de l'automne...' (or something like that; it's a long time since I read Mr Verlaine).
Thank you, Nick, for your kind comment and sending these beautiful lines my way.