These compositions come from a walk taken April 24. The temperature hit 17 Celsius that day. It then dropped the next day to half that, accompanied by a mixed precipitation of drizzle, freezing drizzle & flurries. Yesterday was showers & flurries – today mostly blue skies with a high of 7 wrapped in a chill breeze.
Snow heaps on lawns turn grey-brown, reluctantly shrinking into small mumbling mounds of frosty defiance.
Dormant grass eyes sky
seeking sun’s rays, warm showers-
Frost is the condition that exists when the temperature of the air near the earth or earth-bound objects falls to freezing or lower (0 °C).
Alternately, frost or hoar frost describes a deposition of ice crystals on objects by direct sublimation of water vapour from the air.
How we mark the transitioning vapour as it falls upon our lives – the rise and fall of the emotions as they move from light to shadow, dusk to dawn. Language too builds layers of meaning, some buried deeply, like compressed snow, it falls then hardens in their depths, only to melt away and disappear with the changing seasons.
Before 900 – Middle English, hor ; Old English hār ; cognate with Old Norse hārr grey with age, Old Frisian hēr grey, Old High German hēr old ( German hehr august, sublime)
Old English har “hoary, gray, venerable, old,” the connecting notion being grey hair, from Proto-Germanic *haira (cf. Old Norse harr “gray-haired, old,” Old Saxon, Old High German her “distinguished, noble, glorious,” German hehr). German also uses the word as a title of respect, in Herr. Of frost, it is recorded in Old English, perhaps expressing the resemblance of the white feathers of frost to an old man’s beard. Used as an attribute of boundary stones in Anglo-Saxon, perhaps in reference to being grey with lichens, hence its appearance in place-names.
white hair’d limbs, chill’d air –
grasping at light clouded sky’s
kiss upon the earth.
Winter’s sublime age –
grey with rising crystal strands,
so my face grows frost .
Proudly lichen fiercely clings,
Counting out bordering years.
The Plasticman always rings My Lovely, every Wednesday at midnight. It is the same ending to every conversation, “Bats eat the fish bones of time“. It doesn’t matter now. I got my heater and he’s going to get a Harlem Gooseberry in his smiler before sunrise. Tooting the wrong ringer will get him a twist and crackle, and then he will jump like a flame in a tango bar. Once I’m done, he’ll be ready for the darkroom scanner.
Trigger man takes slugs,
Trip for biscuits gone south fast –
fish bones stick down deep……
The Loon glides past the tomato plants in our backyard – Suspended in time with the rest of the mural painted by my wife. The plants will pass away with the coming Fall, while the Loon continues in motionless movement through the grains of the wood board on which its reality clings.
the blue water ripples
across hard wooden surface –
frozen as winter;
ceaseless seasons cascade past,
how are we so different ?
I noticed that one of my older posts, Surreal Thursday: Passion Fruit and Mushrooms , had popped up as a top post. So for this Surreal Thursday, I am revisiting the images through some digital reconstructed reality.
A screen capture of the post included some icons of recent blogs I have visited. They include the following posts (links open in new window/tab, make sure to visit and view the original compositions).
Free Write Friday ~ My Breast Cancer Journey on a Jazz Lit Canvas featuring Coltrane’s “Softly, As In a Morning Sunrise.”
Four summers have past since that original post. Even our digital remains reflect that time ticks off the seconds, while we are caught up in whatever holds our attention at the moment, a flower, a photograph , or preparing a post for our blog. We think we are carving moments into permanence, while we are being twisted into new forms of self, like a flower becoming ripe fruit or a mushroom emerging from the the decay of a changing season.
lost here in summers-
past-petals fall quickly down,
twists of light remains