spring whimzy has erupted at my place is unusual ways this year.

• I decided to start taking walks around our glorious lakeshore in the early early mornings on my way home from work. A friend came with me on the first and we were well rewarded with sights of loons, ducks, turtles, tulips and the foggy downtown skyline on a warm fresh sunday morning.
• we are packing to move into our new house! finally, we will own a home of our own again!!!
  this little place is currently a maze of cardboard boxes, our artwork is off the wall, I’m tossing out stuff as we pack and feeling just like the little caterpillar that could as I imagine all the infinite ways this home will bless and root my family. i’m in heaven.
• of all the plants i’ve loved and cared for at this place, the irises are my little queens. i’ve chosen to take only them to our new place. they are the strongest and daringest and purplest and make me so happy. They are now installed in pots, about to burst into bloom and gracing my front steps, waiting as anxiously as the rest of us for our new home.

From My flora

Caterpillar

Brown and furry
Caterpillar in a hurry,
Take your walk
To the shady leaf, or stalk,
Or what not,
Which may be the chosen spot.
No toad spy you,
Hovering bird of prey pass by you;
Spin and die,
To live again a butterfly.

~ Christina Rossetti

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she told me to…

To Mother

I hope that soon, dear mother,
You and I may be
In the quiet room my fancy
Has so often made for thee, –

The pleasant, sunny chamber,
The cushioned easy-chair
The book laid for your reading,
The vase of flowers fair;

The desk beside the window
Where the sun shines warm and bright;
And there in ease and quiet
The promised book you write;

While I sit close beside you,
Content at last to see
That you can rest, dear mother,
And I can cherish thee.

Louisa May Alcott

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My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the
hummingbird –
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there
the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the
speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat
torn?
Am I no longer young, and still
not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still
and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and
the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since
all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a
mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give
shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the
sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over,
how it is
that we live forever.

~ Mary Oliver

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There was never a Queen like Balkis,
From here to the wide world’s end;
But Balkis talked to a butterfly
As you would talk to a friend.

There was never a King like Solomon,
Not since the world began;
But Solomon talked to a butterfly
As a man would talk to a man.

She was Queen of Sabaea–
And he was Asia’s Lord–
But they both of ‘em talked to butterflies
When they took their walks abroad!

~ from The Butterfly that Stamped,
by Rudyard Kipling

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Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

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