The Sounds Of Summer

"The steady buzzzzzzz of the Katydid chorus,

the bass solo of the croaking Frog,

the steady woof-woof-woof of a barking Dog

- a summer night's serenade."

~Michael P. Garofalo : Cuttings

Time To Bale

It's hay baling time in Tennessee.

The sweet aroma of newly cut grasses float across gentle breezes.

Becoming fodder for the beasts on cold Winter days.

 

“Haymaking” [sonnet]
Tis haytime & the red complexioned sun
Was scarcely up ere blackbirds had begun
Along the meadow hedges here & there
To sing loud songs to the sweet smelling air
Where breath of flowers & grass & happy cow
Fling oer ones senses streams of fragrance now
While in some pleasant nook the swain & maid
Lean oer their rakes & loiter in the shade
Or bend a minute oer the bridge & throw
Crumbs in their leisure to the fish below
—Hark at that happy shout—& song between
Tis pleasures birthday in her meadow scene
What joy seems half so rich from pleasure won
As the loud laugh of maidens in the sun.

John Clare (1793-1864).

Tennessee And Tornadoes

Yesterday, we were under the dreaded "Tornado Warning" once again.

Straight-line winds gusting up to 74 miles per hour toppled trees, power lines, and caused destruction and anxiousness.

The neighboring counties bore the brunt of Mother Nature's wrath, lives were spared, for which we always have to be grateful.

 

My husband tells me that tornadoes were a rare occurance in these parts when he was a boy, nowadays, it's a given from early Spring through late Fall.

Be safe, adhere to the warnings, have an emergency plan in place.

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

Logan County, Kentucky: Image courtesy of Michael Cook

 

 

Bee-ing Busy

The garden is all abuzz, with bees, and butterflies, lightning bugs and ladybugs.

All so very busy dutifully distributing the pollen amongst the flowers.

I thank them more than words can say.

 

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry
Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.
His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
Of clovers and of noon!

~ Emily Dickinson : The Bee (1830)

 

 

 

 

Spring Rain

The world is wet today
luxurious, damp, drenched
drops hug the leaves,
anoint the still budded lilac blossoms
before their blooming
rich purple and plum
made richer by their watery skin
New leaves under the weight
droplets heavy, hanging
bowing the white pine needles
undersides exposed to drink
drink in the morning
hushed in the rain
temperature near the dewpoint
sprouts of just planted flowers
eager from the parched soil
new puddles bloom too
on the ground, the driveway
collect and gather
without the smell of summer rain yet
tears splash and spread
silent shimmers, heralds, messengers
in the spring rain.

~A Spring Rain : Raymond J. Foss

Love In A Cottage

A cottage small be mine, with porch

Enwreathed with ivy green,
And brightsome flowers with dew-filled bells,
'Mid brown old wattles seen.

And one to wait at shut of eve,

With eyes as fountain clear,
And braided hair, and simple dress,
My homeward step to hear.

On summer eves to sing old songs,

And talk o'er early vows,
While stars look down like angels' eyes
Amid the leafy boughs.

When Spring flowers peep from flossy cells,

And bright-winged parrots call,
In forest paths be ours to rove
Till purple evenings fall.

The curtains closed, by taper clear

To read some page divine,
On winter nights, the hearth beside,
Her soft, warm hand in mine.

And so to glide through busy life,

Like some small brook alone,
That winds its way 'mid grassy knolls,
Its music all its own.

Love in a Cottage ~ Daniel Henry Deniehy 1828-1865

The Fairest Month

"Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine
The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights
And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine,
The foliage of the valleys and the heights.
Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights;
The mower's scythe makes music to my ear;
I am the mother of all dear delights;
I am the fairest daughter of the year."

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow