Reflections from an Open Window
Linda Raha's Writing Corner
I have dearly loved the work of certain poets, and they have enriched my life, but the poetry of life itself is something altogether different. It too, has a meter and a beat, lines that are melancholy, and lines that are sweet. The poetry presents itself to us each day, a new page yet unwritten.
I wait each and every year for my blue hydrangea to bloom. Only then, will it be June; only then, will I know that summer is on its way. It is such a lovely thing, with deep-green velvet leaves, and the bluest flowers you have ever seen. The blossoms tug at my heart, the remembrance
Every now and then, I forget the importance of my dreamer shoes; I slip on that oh so practical pair in the back of the closet, the pair that might have been perfect, but never really were. They kind of make my feet hurt, but they look good. And they are very practical, sort of
I do not own a summer house, a magical bungalow beside the sea, and yet there is magic in my house each and every summer. Perhaps, it is that summer is a state of mind, and it invades even the nooks and crannies of our everyday life. I do know this; there is nothing so
There lies in life a field of dreams; there is such a bounty to choose from. The hills rise up in the morning light; we gather our buttercups, yellow-gold staining our fingers. Everywhere, there is clover, an incense we know is fleeting; the bees know too, and are quick to pass clover to clover, before
Our front porch is a great place for birds to hang out, but when I open the door, and they fly inside, we have a problem! Just like you or I, when we find ourselves in a place we don't want to be, the birds have a dilemma; suddenly, they feel trapped, and there seems
We all have our favorite things that we greatly enjoy; sometimes though, it is fun to embrace something different, something totally new. The truth is, you never know unless you try the unexpected. Change can be exhilarating! I often order the same exact thing when I eat out at a restaurant. I love crab cakes.
We climb our mountains one day at a time; still, the clock so steady, meters out the moments. I watch the sheep in the valley; they leap, they eat, and as darkness settles, they sleep. Soundlessly, I listen; I listen as one who seeks to know the mystery of the mountains. I know that mountains
I cannot remember a more beautiful spring; the earth has awoke from the deep sleep of winter. Outside my window, my crabapple tree is a showy spectacle; there is all that spring snow, pure white blossoms, drifting to the ground. There is the dance of the birds from tree to tree; they are not sure
