Photo by Angie Quantrell
Text by God
Photo by Angie Quantrell
Text by God
Photo by Angie Quantrell
Text by God
frosty shimmers glow
tips of ice knife through frigid,
growing icicles
ice knife by Angie Quantrell
photo by Angie Quantrell
determination!
survival, come snow or ice
rejoice, pretty ones
survival by Angie Quantrell
Lately we’ve been required to take the weather app predictions with an entire shaker full of salt (instead of a few grains).
But not today! The app said snow, and snow is the happening event. I think they are quite a bit off on the amount of snow they predicted, as I spent over an hour shoveling and my tracks, trails, and cleared areas disappeared beneath more inches of the pretty fluff before I finished.
What is .2 of an inch anyway? Not the mountains of snow piled around the RV and shop. Do they measure snow AFTER they melt it in a cup? I keep sweeping .2 off the deck. And the next time I look, I need to do it again. Percentage of error seems to be quite high.
.2 frozen in my hair
Blowing wind, heavy snow, cold air. Winter is back. With near 50 degrees last week, I was thinking spring, bulbs popping up new flowers, pleasant walks, sunny skies. Wait. I thought the groundhog did not see his shadow and spring is coming early?
Winter or not, I love the white stuff. So beautiful. A bear to drive in (I watched a semi back down the hill near us when he couldn’t make it to the top). Slippery footing. Cold. So peaceful. Quiet.
No late start today. I think that is going to change tomorrow. Get out those snow clothes back out. It’s sledding time!
.2 melting on my glasses, soaking my hat and coat
What’s the weather in your neck of the woods?
Rust certainly equals a throwback in time. Metal, rain, wind, snow, sun, exposure. All combine to wreck havoc on sentimental objects, mellowing newness and transforming it into works of art.
Paint disappears, patina wears thin, and intrigue grows. Who clasped this lock here, tossing away the key, for an eternity of unbroken love? Who was in love? Was the effort in memory of an absent love or did both in love grasp and click the lock to make a commitment?
How many throwback Thursdays have passed since each was locked? How many days, weeks, months, years of weather and life have drifted by like the waves on the shore and gulls on the breeze? How many throwbacks before rust came to visit?
Rust calls me. Not pristine, though new is surely beautiful. But wear and tear, peeling paint, bleed lines of red. Time lends character. But is time kind to the hands who attached the locks as signs to the world, shouting, “I love you!”? Is there still love?
Hope springs eternal. As rust makes for interest, time grows and deepens love. If we but let it. And work for it.
Hope for love.
shaggy head, bearded
swaying, stretching for the sky
little men lined up
shaggy by Angie Quantrell
It’s Happy Hump Day Haiku Challenge day! How about sharing a haiku about something you see in nature?
Love, Laughter, and Life 