of the last few months. Welcome to my world ...
Looks so 'Norman Rockwell', doesn't it? Except for the fact that last week was Easter and I'm still shoveling snow.
If you noticed, I'm shooting in black and white to match the mood. The storm coat is ten years old and I think it's grafted itself onto my skin permanently. The boots are Canadian and have kept my feet warm and dry since November. My toes refuse to recognize heels, hiking boots, or sneakers; they won't know what to do once the snow has melted. And neither will I.
Here's the elixir that's kept me going through snow and sleet, wind and rain, bronchitis, flu, and family crises ...
Who would have thought that cough drops and alcohol can add a bit of color to a rather monochrome existence? Hey, if you think I need to get a life, come up here and help me shovel and then we'll talk.
I'm ready for Spring, I swear. In fact, last weekend as I bought Easter eggs for the grandkids to dye, I deliberately stared Old Man Winter in the face and brazenly purchased these ...
Yes, it was a bold political maneuver. I told the Old Man that someone had to go. He was prolonging this whole season way beyond reasonable expectations. I want change. I want color in my life again! I want to wake up and smell the roses, or a couple mums. Dare I hope for Spring?
Excuse me while I go scrape the snow and ice off my car windows.
1 comment:
Ahh, Baileys Irish Cream....is there anything that it won't fix.
I know how you feel Mater. We certainly don't get the snow that you do down here but I've got spring fever all the same.
Take this Old Man Winter:
To Spring
by William blake.
O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell each other, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime.
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languished head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.
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