The Wild Thyme Unseen . . .
This is a philosophical cat. She lives on a farm in Michigan and enjoys springtime, as we all do. She is the music and doesn't think about it lasting. The lines below are from The Dry Salvages, No. 3 of Eliot's Four Quartets. This is poetry for grownups--sometimes I think I understand it--yet often parts seem very mysterious to me. Pat Shelley was very fond of the Four Quartets; she was the music for me--I still miss her.
"For most of us, there is only the unattended
Moment, the moment in and out of time,
The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,
The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning
Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply
That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
While the music lasts. "
I don't wear yellow; I don't decorate with it. Still I notice that it is the brightest and lightest color, film loves it and yellow often makes paintings sing. Nature loves it too, as shown by the great numbers of yellow flowers. And many little birds are yellow, wholly or in part, flitting through the spring woods.
Now here we are in high midsummer. Tonight, crickets keep up a metronomic rhythm outdoors. We have the windows wide open to catch the summer air.
I found two books I have had nearly forever, one since I was three, a Mary had a Little Lamb which my parents bought as a souvenir of our trip to New England. I know about this trip only because of the photographs. I don't remember anything about it. I've had the other book, a laarge blue one, since I was ten or eleven. It is called No. 12 Joy Street and is an anthology of poems and stories. The ditty about the Five Tarakans has been running through my head ever since I found it again last night. Tomorrow maybe I will share it with you, weblog buddies. Good night.