The aria of light returning
Is beautiful music indeed.
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.
~John Greenleaf Whittier
For more music, please visit: Skywatch.
Come and let’s take a walk through my enchanted world.
In the early morning, the freezing temperatures
Create art out of silver beeches
And the hoar-frosted trees frame
The pyramid of the swings at the end of our street.
Once out on the lake, I walk past
An enchanted red boat house
Hiding among frosted branches.
Zooming out with my lens, I see the boat house
Belongs to this summer cottage
Patiently waiting for warmer days.
As for me, I’m enjoying the last cold days
Of magical hoar frost and ice.
For more delights, please visit: Our World.
I might not live anywhere special –
My little house is in a row
Behind the houses you see on the left.
But we do have a great location
Right by the lake.
And when the sun shines through
Magical frosted trees,
The skies — and all underneath them — suddenly seem so very lovely.
I’m so used to living here
That it was only when I walked out onto the iced over lake
And looked back
That I realized how very lucky I really am.
Like most things in life, a new perspective
Can promote appreciation and joy.
For other perspectives, please visit: Skywatch.
Endless blue skies,
A sunbathing dog –
And crystal chandeliers
Glittering in the sun.
For more sparkling skies, please visit: Skywatch.
And swing by Camera Critters too!
We tend to take them for granted – the trees –
Even when their bare bones
Create art on a sun-drenched wall in winter;
Or when the mistletoe
Hangs like disco balls from their weathered branches.
Some say ‘tree hugger’ as if it were a bad thing.
But I agree with my son,
More of us ought to take the time to thank the trees
For their beauty.
For more tree-mendous posts, please visit: Our World.
At last – the snow fell as lightly as butterflies
Bringing out the child-like spirits in us all.
It turned the world
Into a snowy poem,
And leaves into fluffy pillows of white.
The magic of the snow is that it
Makes the world a softer place,
A kinder place where dreams can grow.
The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them: there ought to be as many for love. — Margaret Atwood
For more poems, please visit: Our World.
Telegraph wires, laden with snow, cross the twilight sky.
Now, the moon peeks boldly through
Leading the eye to a rainbow moonscape of snow.
What you see in life all depends on your perspective.
For more deliciousness, please visit: Skywatch.
I’m in awe of trees: they seem to be wisdom distilled.
I think it has something to do with their age. Most trees will be here much longer than you or I.
I wonder if they hold a memory of history in their roots and the promise of the future in their branches?
Take this tree, for example. It’s taller than a house, much taller - and has a preservation order on it. Why? Because it is about 750 years old! Once upon a time, it was thirty metres taller – in its heyday – but it has since been cut back to help it live longer. It is expected to live for another hundred years or so.
When it was but a seedling, the lake came up to the house and fed its roots. Time pushed back the lake’s waters, but the tree thrived.
Just think of all that amazing history it has been a part of! 750 years ago saw the end of the Viking Age and the start of the Middle Ages.
The Crusades were being fought, the Byzantine Empire was re-emerging and Genghis Khan established the Mongol Empire. Dante was born, Birger Jarl, the founder of Stockholm, died – and Budvar beer was brewed for the first time in Bohemia.
I’m in awe of trees: they are the repository of memories.
For more wisdom, please visit: My World!
I opened my front door, took a walk on the ice…
… and rubbed my eyes in disbelief.
Someone had rolled out a silken scarf and created a masterpiece with delicate, loving brush strokes
In pearl, and grey, and white and black.
(This colour photo is straight from the camera. Wondrous!)
For other wonderful peeks, please visit: My World!
I’ve just discoverred Tagore, Asia’s first winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. Just imagine – he wrote his first poem when he was only eight!
(I found this photo of oaks in Louisiana, USA via Stumbleupon, so unfortunately, don’t know who took it.)
these great trees are prayers.
Tagore (from his poem Stray Birds)