We are again hosting our Cards and Garments in the Garden on the patio where you will find my cards as well as a 2023 calendar this year and Eileen’s hand-knitted items and handmade jewelry. (She also takes custom orders.) We hope you will come have a look and that the weather will cooperate. If the weather turns wet, we will make a rain plan (TBD). It would be lovely to see you in person! But, if you can’t make it to this event, remember that you can also get in touch with either of us by email.
For September 1, the opening lines of a poem by Phillis Wheatley (emancipated from slavery in 1774).
Attend my lays, ye ever honour’d nine,
Assist my labours, and my strains refine;
In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,
For bright Aurora now demands my song.
Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies,
Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:
The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays…
For the rest of this poem, please see An Hymn to Phillis.
Discussing the new novel by Kiran Millwood Hargrave, and grateful not to be living in 17th century Vardø (or 17th century anywhere).
Snow and daffodils: the turning of the year.
For this day, a painting, and a poem by Philip Booth.
lying down at dark,
my waking fits your sleep.
flares the slow-banked fire
between our mingled feet,
curved close and warm
against the nape of love,
who holds your dreaming
shape, I match my breathing
to your breath;
and sightless, keep my hand
on your heart’s breast, keep
on your sleep to prove
there is no dark, nor death.
For this double celebration, a sketch, and the first verse of a poem by Lynn Ungar.
Celebrate this unlikely oracle,
this ball of fat and fur,
whom we so mysteriously endow
with the power to predict spring.
Let’s hear it for the improbable heroes who,
frightened at their own shadows,
nonetheless unwittingly work miracles.
Why shouldn’t we believe
this peculiar rodent holds power
over sun and seasons in his stubby paw?
Who says that God is all grandeur and glory?
—from “Groundhog Day” by Lynn Ungar
…and a celebration for Colette, Elijah Wood, and Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (published on this day in 1813).
I think my family enjoys the dinner candle more as a capricious beeswax waterfall.