Poem:
How do you know, deep underground,
Hid in your bed from sight and sound,
Without a turn in temperature,
With weather life can scarce endure,
That light has won a fraction’s strength,
And day put on some moments’ length,
Whereof in merest rote will come,
Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb;
O crocus root, how do you know,
How do you know?
-Thomas Hardy, The Year’s Awakening
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As I stand near the swamp now, the air is full of the smell of fresh mud and the sounds of tiny frog love songs. How do I sqeeze this excitement of new beginnings into my pictures? I haven’t found that yet. Come on by and sit with me. I want to share this wonderment with the world.
Uploaded by HelenJr on 13 Apr ’06, 8.01am CDT.