Monday, September 3, 2012


September:  when the days grow short, and the grass grows pink.  Now that I've reached my allotted span of "three score years and ten," the waning days of summer seem especially precious to me, and the beauty of the land I inhabit announces itself to me more clearly than ever.  Here's a field of "weeds" that caught my attention today, and I just had to stand and gaze at it for a long, long, time.


Nature Weaver Gypsy said...

Your photo speaks of sweet serenity.

Jens Z said...

Completely off topic, but I just received a message that is (I hope!) fraudulent: " On Wed, Sep 5, 2012 at 6:35 AM, Jacqueline Donnelly [] wrote:
I am out of the country, Madrid, Spain at the moment, I am here for a Voluntary Training Program (VTP), and unfortunately I just had my bag stolen from me with my passport, personal effects and my phone. I have been trying to sort things out with the necessary authorities, I need some assistance from you. Let me know if you can be of any help. Jackie

I'd guess that your email has been hacked and that your friends should know of this. -- Jens

Ellen Rathbone said...

"...Twenty will not come again.
And take from seventy springs a score,
That only leaves me fifteen more."

I know the poem came before the song, but I learned the song first - will always be a favorite.

And I see someone else got that email from Madrid! You've been hacked!

Jacqueline Donnelly said...

Thanks, Nature Weaver. I hope the photo cast a bit of its sweet spell on you, too.

Thanks, Jens, I found out early this morning about this mess. The terrible thing is that all my saved emails and contact addresses have disappeared, too. I hope Yahoo can restore them, but if not, please email me in a couple of days so that I can put your address back in my list of contacts. I hope all my friends will do this, too.

Yes, Ellen, I memorized that A.E. Houseman poem when I was a hopeless romantic in high school. In many ways, I still am. Let's see if I can still recite it:

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
is hung with bloom along the bough
and stands about the woodland ride,
wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
That leaves me only fifty more.

And since, to look at things in bloom,
Fifty years is not much room,
About the woodlands I must go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

I guess I'm still at it, even though my three-score-and-ten are used up.