Early light in the late spring woods

     Last night, I could only post by the phone. With the app I tried for that, I could use only pictures I had on iPhone pictures (this is of the early morning light) and I was unable to figure out how to add text. Now I can add it (Mobile Hot Spot, but only above the picture.) So I will tell about yesterday's vesper bird walk on the next post. Such are the joys of technology glitches. . .       UPDATE ON MEMORIAL DAY: We are getting settled in here. Our daughter and her friend deep-cleaned the house for us before we got here, for which we are very thankful. They cleared all surfaces, moved all furniture, washed all linens and coverings, But then they didn't remember where everything went. So there are neat stacks of folded linens and papers and small equipments like pencil sharpeners and calculators. It is really pretty funny and VERY, very clean. I didn't keep things on windowsills, but on nearly every other surface here. 

Just before I left, thinking again about Vern Rutsala, I found some of his books available and had then sent here ahead of me. Picking up one to stack it, I opened to this poem. So you have one after all--it's just ABOVE the photo, not below:

The Windowsill Over the Sink

You're back from a long trip

and promise yourself

that it will never be cluttered

again. Yet you see it grow

its inhabitants almost by stealth:

A horse chestnut, votive candles,

paper clips and safety pins,

the accumulation gathering around

the aspirin bottle. Then the cup

with the broken handle, the bird's nest

found on a walk, pinecones,

matchbooks, coupons offering

ten cents off on a Mercedes.

The old life is reentered this way

and begins to crowd around you

with its clutter showing again that

you can keep everything but promises.

Vern Rutsala, from The Moment's Equation, Ashland Poetry Press, 2004. Page 12.

And this time, it's good morning for the augmented post.