April 20, 2018
To close out this week of (mostly) musings on forms of conflict, I will offer a juxtaposition: how beautiful spring can look and how weird spring can sound. The latter requires you to open the link below which will guide you to a recording of the sounds of rhubarb making noises while it grows. Not kidding, either.
Instead of recommending a book on spring, or general issues of renewal, I am posting a tried & true poem of yore, Woodsworth’s Lines Written in Early Spring, which also juxtaposes opposites.
Enjoy a sunny weekend, smell the first lilac, and forget for a while what man has made of man….
Sara Lee Silberman
What a wonderful posting! Lovely pictures, rhubarb sounds – Who knew?! – and sad/hopeful, apt words from Wordsworth. Thanks, and wishing you a good weekend….
Steve Tilden
If an inaudible whisper blown between our lips
can send him home to us
then silence is perhaps the sound
of spiders breathing and roots mining the earth;
it may be asparagus heaving headfirst, into the light,
and the long brown sound of cracked cups, when it happens.
That’s the first stanza of Lisel Mueller’s poem What the Dog Perhaps Hears when I read today’s YDP. There is so much I will never know, but I shall enjoy what I can.