med_cat: (cat in dress)


When Blackthorn blossoms leap to sight;
They deck the hedge with starry light,
In early Spring
When rough winds blow,
Each promising
A purple sloe!

And now is Autumn here, and lo,
The Blackthorn bears the purple sloe!
But ah, how much
Too sharp these plums,
Until the touch
Of Winter comes!

med_cat: (cat in dress)
Oiginally posted by [livejournal.com profile] rubyelf at I promised you a nature post..., who kindly gave me permission to share :) Many thanks!
~~

So here is is... these are pictures from my walk yesterday. I think it was yesterday. I had class today and it fried my brain a little. There's still not much going on as far as flowers or leaves, but I did find some pink acorns...



Read more... )



P.S. Although Chris Hemsworth is not generally my type (not that I know what my type is, other than a sarcastic smartass), I cannot deny the hotness and honestly, the man just gets better with age, so... I found some things to share with those of you who mentioned your fondness for him, starting with the picture in my icon, which is from him guest hosting "Saturday Night Live".
.
.
.
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Sandpiper

The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.

The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.

- Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.

The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. The tide
is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which.
His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,

looking for something, something, something.
Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray
mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.

Elizabeth Bishop
med_cat: (woman reading)
Pea Brush

I walked down alone Sunday after church
To the place where John has been cutting trees
To see for myself about the birch
He said I could have to bush my peas.

The sun in the new-cut narrow gap
Was hot enough for the first of May,
And stifling hot with the odor of sap
From stumps still bleeding their life away.

The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrill
Wherever the ground was low and wet,
The minute they heard my step went still
To watch me and see what I came to get.

Birch boughs enough piled everywhere!—
All fresh and sound from the recent axe.
Time someone came with cart and pair
And got them off the wild flower’s backs.

They might be good for garden things
To curl a little finger round,
The same as you seize cat’s-cradle strings,
And lift themselves up off the ground.

Small good to anything growing wild,
They were crooking many a trillium
That had budded before the boughs were piled
And since it was coming up had to come.

Robert Frost, 1874 - 1963

(found via [livejournal.com profile] browngirl--many thanks!)
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] levkonoe at Abraham Hunter



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оригинал поста ЗДЕСЬ.
med_cat: (Spring tulips)
The Bee In Church

The nestling church at Ovingdean
Was fragrant as a hive in May;
And there was nobody within
To preach, or praise, or pray.

The sunlight slanted through the door,
And through the panes of painted glass,
When I stole in, alone once more
To feel the ages pass.

Then, through the dim grey hush there droned
An echoing plain-song on the air,
As if some ghostly priest intoned
An old Gregorian there.

Saint Chrysostom could never lend
More honey to the heavenly Spring
Than seemed to murmur and ascend
On that invisible wing.

So small he was, I scarce could see
My girdled brown hierophant;
But only a Franciscan bee
In such a bass could chant.

His golden Latin rolled and boomed.
It swayed the altar-flowers anew,
Till all that hive of worship bloomed
With dreams of sun and dew.

Ah, sweet Franciscan of the May,
Dear chaplain of the fairy queen,
You sent a singing heart away
That day, from Ovingdean.

by Alfred Noyes

Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] duathir at Alfred Noyes, 'The Bee In Church'

med_cat: (cat in dress)




Quite a few of these rather interesting trees, blooming pinkish-purple, in our area (and not only in ours, the video is from Greece, I believe)
As you can see in the close-up photo, the flowers are right on the branches...

med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] kavery at Вечерняя сказка
Elizabeth Foste
med_cat: (Spring tulips)
Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] levkonoe at А не соскучились ли мы по Kojima нашему Koukei ?




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med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] levkonoe at Lucie Bilodeau




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med_cat: (Spring tulips)
Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] levkonoe at Княгницкий Владимир.




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med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] levkonoe at Э.Колесникова




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med_cat: (cat in dress)
Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] levkonoe at Beth Hoselton




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Smile ;)

Feb. 22nd, 2017 06:13 am
med_cat: (cat in dress)

(Artwork by Millicent Sowerby)
med_cat: (cat in dress)
Not Yet

Morning of buttered toast;
of coffee, sweetened, with milk.

Out of the window,
snow-spruces step from their cobwebs.
Flurry of chickadees, feeding then gone.
A single cardinal stipples an empty branch –
one maple leaf lifted back.

I turn my blessings like photographs into the light;
over my shoulder the god of Not-Yet looks on:

Not-yet-dead, not-yet-lost, not-yet-taken.
Not-yet-shattered, not-yet-sectioned,
not-yet-strewn.

Ample litany, sparing nothing I hate or love,
not-yet-silenced, not-yet-fractured, not-yet-

Not-yet-not.

I move my ear a little closer to that humming figure,
I ask him only to stay.

By Jane Hirshfield

Originally posted by [livejournal.com profile] elenbarathi at Jane Hirshfield, 'Not Yet'--many thanks!

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