This past Sunday, Jaime and I, went for a walk. We ended it by wandering down a path that goes through the woods by her home. It had all the markings of spring: trees budding, trillium's peeking through the ground coverage, some hugging themselves close while waiting for warmer weather, while others were being brave and embracing the sunbeams that were able to reach the woodland floor. Purple violets, white sorrel and yellow trout lilies standing up and showing off their new spring jackets. Pools of dark, cold water from the winter thaw, reflecting the tall trees that were lifting budded and bare branches up towards the rays of watered sunshine. Birds were calling out to one another and a butterfly or two bravely wandered aimlessly in and out of the shadows cast from the odd passing cloud and the silent grey tree trunks.
One of my favourite poets, Robert Frost, was born on a Thursday. (03-26-1874)
He wrote about the exact same subject.
SPRING POOLS by Robert Frost
These pools that, though in forests, still reflect the total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.
And those, my friends, are my Thursday thoughts.