Experiencing February as the longest month is a mood that often strikes me, in both mid-winter and retrospectively with the promise that March never fails to bring. The red buds are among the first to show color in the deep woods, even before the dogwood and today the one below my loft window is not disappointing.
When I discovered these many years ago that I could never leave the Georgia I had planned only as a temporary way station it was because I could not entertain thoughts of never seeing another Atlanta spring.
Those springs of greens and whites and pinks of dogwood and pear and of azaleas and all the rest, bedecking the manured and clipped city lawns and dwellings of Druid Hills and Dunwoody and Sandy Springs as fairylands, peaking always on April 15, will be on the backs of my eyes the day I die.
Now since living in the mountains in the company, of sadly dwindling numbers, of wild things I have come to treasure the falls at least equally with the springs. Certainly the spare natural transit of the seasons more defined bring a reassurance of change and contentment in the understanding that all things do have their season. Each is the more precious because of that.
My father whose life was the nurturing and presentation of flowers often said "Their unique value comes from being perishable." As I have entered the outward bound age I appreciate more deeply the meaning of the sweetness of knowing it will not last.
They sing songs without words _____ knowing that
somewhere there is a mate that understands
- a low clear call in the night
-- a joyful melody at dawn
--- or a vesper lyric at sundownlove songs thrown to the sky carried by the winds ....
And so they mate ____ and build their homes and
while the young ones chirp __ they feed them well and
show each one the wondrous way of birds -- for soon
the young will leave the nest to sing their own songs _
___ find their own food ____ and know the freedom
of independence .......They may pass from time to time _____ and travel
together across the miles ___ each to himself ____
yet __ bound by common ways ........
When the south wind begins to blow __
and the earth turns green with life ___Love springs anew ____
and ancient songs are heard again
Songs of the wild ___
the beautiful ____ and free ........ ~~~Gwen Frostic ~ 1965This whole is a reflection of the circles within circles in my mind and my interactions with all living things including the species human. I suppose much is a matter of context and perspective and I may here present some unique vistas. When I first designed and composed these pages I had just just completed an abstract of my public life. Now with this rewrite I am entering another benchmark of change and reflection.
I hold still many thoughts and memories and the permutations of insights and commitments continue their sauntering through my consciousness. So my dear ones enjoy what you will and rest awhile by the waters and enjoy the music.
Deepwoods Incubating Spring Wildwood Lullwater Summer Home
Note: All narrative material and personal photographs and memorabilia appearing on this website are the property of the authors and protected under copyright law. January 21, 2000. Publication of narrative text and reproductions of covered images without permission is prohibited.
05 April 2005
