Robert (gurdonark) wrote,

Friday's flowers

Petals, by Amy Lowell

"Life is a stream
On which we strew
Petal by petal the flower of our heart;
The end lost in dream,
They float past our view,
We only watch their glad, early start.

Spring Blur

Freighted with hope,
Crimsoned with joy,
We scatter the leaves of our opening rose;
Their widening scope,
Their distant employ,
We never shall know. And the stream as it flows
Sweeps them away,
Each one is gone
Ever beyond into infinite ways.
We alone stay
While years hurry on,
The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays".

Last night I picked up my 12-year-old niece at Love Field Airport. She likes to come stay with us, because we always have a good time together. Each time she visits she has grown a noticeable bit older and more mature.

Today we attend a pleasantly full dance card of things to do. Our area received at last a decent run of Spring rains, so that my hope is that a wildflower or two show themselves in bloom.

I got a tiny telescope at a going-out-of-business sale at a Wolf's Camera. The scope features a camera attachment. I worked to get the camera set up, but then no pictures could be taken. I thought myself in need to intense technical reading, until I saw that I left the lens cap on the telescope.

I still delight a little inside for having learned that those little green birds were orange-crowned warblers.
A wave of memory just reminded me of a sky-blue Gremlin automobile a friend drove in high school. Last night the setting sun resembled a cellophane shape in embedded in dark construction paper.

Although I often prefer "hard" or "space opera" science fiction to fantasy, I am reading a fantasy novel in which a musician uses magic. I fantasize about writing a novel in which people with the powers to change reality expend a lot of effort to protect someone with the greatest power of all--the power to show true compassion.

I ordered the huge nearly-complete volume of Edna St. Vincent Millay poetry used from an seller.
I stayed up after midnight listening to mp3s, and feeling the world is a right enough place.

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