Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Queen Anne's Lace


I've been away from this blog too long. I moved this summer and it has been taking me a long time to get settled, thus I have been neglecting my blog.  I chose this place because it backs up on a forest and I can expect to see lots of wildlife. I saw a fox in my backyard the other day.



This piece is my newest compilation. I started by taking photos of the Queen Anne's Lace that stood so tall and elegant along the forest edge bordering my yard. I was delighted by all the different, beautiful, delicate stages of the seed heads. Truly breathtaking.


Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Among Women by Marie Ponsot

What women wander?
Not many. All. A few.
Most would, now and then,
and no wonder.
Some, and I’m one,
Wander sitting still.
My small grandmother
Bought from every peddler
Less for the ribbons and lace
Than for their scent
Of sleep where you will,
Walk out when you want, choose
Your bread and your company.

She warned me, “Have nothing to lose.”

She looked fragile but had
High blood, runner’s ankles,
Could endure, endure.
She loved her rooted garden, her
Grand children, her once
Wild once young man.
Women wander
As best they can

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

An April Night by Lucy Maud Montgomery

The moon comes up o'er the deeps of the woods,
And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills,
Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds
Over the pools and the whimpering rills;

And with her the mists, like dryads that creep
From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid springs,
Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep,
With the wind on the hills their gay revellings.

Down on the marshlands with flicker and glow
Wanders Will-o'-the-Wisp through the night,
Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago
By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light.

The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear,
Akin to all eerie and elfin things,
Who weaves about us in meadow and mere

The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.

Friday, March 7, 2014

Thatched Cottage at Sunset

Just a vestige of my ancient Irish roots in honor of the upcoming St. Patrick's Day!
                                       Erin go Bragh!

http://fineartamerica.com/featured/thatched-cottage-at-sunset-maureen-tillman.html?newartwork=true

Saturday, February 22, 2014

February: Thinking of Flowers by Jane Kenyon

Now wind torments the field,
turning the white surface back
on itself, back and back on itself,
like an animal licking a wound.

Nothing but white--the air, the light;
only one brown milkweed pod
bobbing in the gully, smallest
brown boat on the immense tide.

A single green sprouting thing
would restore me. . . .

Then think of the tall delphinium,
swaying, or the bee when it comes

to the tongue of the burgundy lily.

Monday, February 10, 2014

An Afternoon in February by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o’er the plain;

While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.

The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell.

Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing,
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.




Saturday, February 1, 2014

Winter Sleep by Elinor Wylie and Brambly Hedge by Jill Barkley


Winter Sleep by Elinor Wylie

When against earth a wooden heel
Clicks as loud as stone on steel,
When stone turns flour instead of flakes,
And frost bakes clay as fire bakes,
When the hard-bitten fields at last
Crack like iron flawed in the cast,
When the world is wicked and cross and old,
I long to be quit of the cruel cold.

Little birds like bubbles of glass
Fly to other Americas,
Birds as bright as sparkles of wine
Fly in the nite to the Argentine,
Birds of azure and flame-birds go
To the tropical Gulf of Mexico:
They chase the sun, they follow the heat,
It is sweet in their bones, O sweet, sweet, sweet!
It's not with them that I'd love to be,
But under the roots of the balsam tree.

Just as the spiniest chestnut-burr
Is lined within with the finest fur,
So the stoney-walled, snow-roofed house
Of every squirrel and mole and mouse
Is lined with thistledown, sea-gull's feather,
Velvet mullein-leaf, heaped together
With balsam and juniper, dry and curled,
Sweeter than anything else in the world.

O what a warm and darksome nest
Where the wildest things are hidden to rest!
It's there that I'd love to lie and sleep,
Soft, soft, soft, and deep, deep, deep!
               ~    ~    ~   ~   ~

Brambly Hedge by Jill Barkley


The above poem by Elinor Wylie made me think about the Brambly Hedge series of children's books  I fell in love with when my children were very young. The books were written and illustrated by Jill Barkley starting in 1980 and were a series about a community of mice who lived exceptionally well out of sight of humans and preying animals. My kids and I could spend hours engrossed just in the illustrations of these beautifully detailed little books.








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