Tag: sunday

Sunday Muse

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“Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I, the River, I, the Tree
I am yours — your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes
Upon this day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.”

— excerpted from “The Pulse of the Morning” by Maya Angelou

Sunday Muse

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Mertensia virginica

Carrying the weight on the end of a limb
You’re just waiting for somebody to pick you up again
Shaded by a tree, can’t live up to a rose
All you ever wanted was a sunny place to grow

Pretty little thing, sometimes you gotta look up
And let the world see all the beauty that you’re made of
‘Cause the way you hang your head nobody can tell
You’re my Virginia Bluebell
My Virginia Bluebell

Even through a stone a flower can bloom
You just need a little push, Spring is coming soon
Umbrella in the rain, let it roll off your back
Weather what you can, realize what you have

Pretty little thing, sometimes you gotta look up
And let the world see all the beauty that you’re made of
‘Cause the way you hang your head nobody can tell
You’re my Virginia Bluebell
My Virginia Bluebell

Put a little light in the darkest places
Put a little smile on the saddest faces

Pretty little thing, sometimes you gotta look up
And let the world see all the beauty that you’re made of
‘Cause the way you hang your head nobody can tell
You’re my Virginia Bluebell
My Virginia Bluebell

– Miranda Lambert, artist; ‘Revolution’, album 

Sunday Muse

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Snowflakes

Out of the bosom of the Air.
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent and soft and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sunny Sunday

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After Saturday’s miserable weather (blowing snow, 11 degrees windchill), we were all (every one of us) searching for our spot in the sun yesterday.

Belladonna
Pumpkin

Davita

Aibreanne

Everyone, that is, except the guineas… and what were they searching for?  Well they apparently were doing some soul-searching, as they spent hours (yes, hours) Sunday morning staring at their reflections in the side barn door.

Sugar Coated Sunday

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“The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event.  You go to bed in one kind of world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found?”
— J. B. Priestley

Our first significant snowfall was to occur this weekend.  They were predicting an accumulation of 4 to 6 inches.  Instead, it spit snow off and on Saturday, and on Sunday we awoke to this magical, sparkling, sugar-coated world.

As the sun burnt through the fog, it began to heat up the snowy ground, and large billows of steam began to rise; creating another, almost surreal world where grazing ewes and newly shorn ewe lambs became mere shadows, spirits moving through the rising mist.