Another Day Dawns

Good morning, Everyone!

I wonder what the weather is like where you are? We had a nice taste of spring last week, but it blew away in a frigid wind yesterday. Sunday the temp got up to 4 C; this morning at 6 am the temp in Saskatoon is -18 C/ 0 F and the predicted high is -5 C or 23 F. Tomorrow is yet worse; the high is supposed to be -13 C or 9 F. Whimper! Pookie, our cat, wanted out first thing this morning but was ready to come back in three minutes later.

My birthday is almost over for another year. Yesterday Bob brought home a dozen roses, then last night our family took us out to Montana’s, a Saskatoon steak house, and we had a feast. I heard a whisper that there’s a little coffee party planned with some ladies this morning at Silverwood Villa, the seniors’ home where I used to work part-time and now occasionally fill in as cook. I think that’ll be the last of the celebrations. So I’ve been well fêted for birthday #65.

And I’m done bombarding you with micro-poems. It looks like my verses pleased some of the people some of the time yesterday. 🙂 Another thing I did was purchase the upgrade for this blog. I hope you won’t be seeing ads anymore.

I’d like to restart my micro-poetry blog again soon — maybe on May 1st. Tree Top Haiku has been dormant since November but I have a lot of new items to post. Last month I was going through my scraps-of-paper scribblings, getting those verses typed into files, categorizing all my files. Next month I hope to schedule a number of posts on Tree Top Haiku so I don’t have to worry about keeping up on a day-to-day basis all through summer.

I woke up before 5am, so should get lots accomplished today, right? Now I’d better get on to my sewing project for today: a new dress for myself. Here’s wishing you all a great day in whatever part of the world you live.

Brook in February

By Canadian poet Charles G.D. Roberts
1860 – 1944

A snowy path for squirrel and fox,
It winds between the wintry firs.
Snow-muffled are its iron rocks,
And o’er its stillness nothing stirs.

But low, bend low a listening ear!
Beneath the mask of moveless white
A babbling whisper you shall hear
Of birds and blossoms, leaves and light.

Icicles and Snow Days

 

Our weather’s supposed to warm up in the next few days, then turn colder again. which means we’ll get icicles hanging from the eaves wherever roof snow has trickled down.

Icicle are so picturesque, don’t you think? And what child in the colder parts of the world hasn’t tried to eat an icicle? You crunched it with your teeth and loved the sensation of eating frozen glass.

Who among us hasn’t broken off a particularly long one to wave around like a spear, feeling its slippery smoothness? Tossed it like a javelin and listened to the splintering sound as it hit its target.

Perhaps you were wearing wooly mitts when you cracked the metre-long icicle off from the overhanging roof on a sunny day, then had your mittens freeze to the ice. When you finally were able to drop it, you found fuzzy fibers stuck to the icicle and your mitt had a thinner spot.

I suppose there are places in the world where icicles never form, let along get to be six feet long. One can’t imagine them hanging down from trees in the Amazon rain-forest, or in caves along the Nile. What deprivation! On the other hand, we were in Quebec during the infamous “Enfer de glace” when steady rain for almost a week and temps hovering at the freezing point gave “ice” a whole new meaning!

Likewise, what northern climate child hasn’t tried to catch a snowflake on his tongue? Or you open your mouth to the falling flakes and try to catch a dozen, feeling the tickle of cold as they land on your face, powdering your nose and hair.

What child doesn’t love being out in a fresh thick blanket of snow. You swish through the whiteness, plowing it aside with your feet. Or flop down and make a snow angel. When the snow’s falling thick and fast you can look around and feel yourself all alone in this whitening world, leaving your own trail. Your own personal mark in time and place.

Then you glance back and watch the snow filling in your footprints, erasing your passage, making the world white again. You get a fleeting sense of your own life story, your own mortality.

The falling snow wipes out all your missteps and stumbles. Snow renews our hope that such things are possible, that we can have our missteps in this world erased by a merciful heavenly hand.

Snow is created for the senses; it’s created for the bliss of an exploring child. And for a lot of folks it has this figurative sense as well: forgiveness and a life cleansed from impurity.

First posted Nov 19, 2015 as a response to the WordPress Daily Prompt,
where we were to do a post describing some aspect of the sense of touch.

 

Scrapping

Sparrows

They squabble like humans,
these sparrows tussling over
fallen seeds under my feeder.
Silly birds! They can’t comprehend
a big bag of feed in my garage

poured out fresh daily,
Food for all, yet they threaten
and buffet each other;
little warlords disputing division,
eyes fixed on the last crust,
while fresh loaves brown in the oven.

As if there’ll never be enough,
as if each one must have it all
or starve. Or do they simply enjoy
scrapping? So much like people!