“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


everyday sunday. february.

and we have pink.
and lavender.
and paler shades of both.

this week the tulip trees bloomed.
ours on thursday;
at breakfast just baby buds,
by mid afternoon opening their faces to the sun.

this morning two trees across the street.

saturday i passed trees up and down the streets, celebrating february's almost end.  the forsythia has bloomed yellow at the foot of our driveway, and the pear trees are full of almost buds.   there's a tree on a corner between work and home, all blossomed with white flowers - it blooms early every year and i have no idea what it is.  some years, it blooms a tad later than usual and i think dogwood? and sometimes i think pear?  yesterday i thought white camellia?  it scatters flowers on the brick street, and i tell myself every year to stop and gather a few, to know its true name, but i don't.  i let it scatter magic and drive on by.

the camellias in the back yard are full of fat round buds and there are three red blossoms reaching for katie's windows, as if her home was the house of the sun.  if this is a false spring, i will take it, but it sounds like the real thing, unending birdsong flittering across the air.  there is not a bird to seen at this moment, after days of waking up to cardinals, robins, sparrows, blackbirds, all helter skeltered across the yard, but i hear them in the trees, and there - there, just barely visible in the hackberry tree, one tiny fluttering sparrow.

yesterday evening, one redtailed hawk and one barred owl, high in oak trees, stared each other down before calling it a draw and flying off into the north.


everyday sunday.

a new spot on this map called emma tree.  it will be here every week.  it will be the nothings of life and the everythings.  today's sunday is the last sunday of february.  i feel almost sad typing that, knowing february doesn't have any more in her pockets, and my fairy tale brain wonders where the months go when they are done.  february needs a bit of sleep, i think, but will she wake in july to turn up her air conditioner?  will july laugh at her?  stuff and nonsense and everydays.

my writing fingers feel energized.  i have no idea why, it may be a false start also, but i will take it, along with the spring that teases me outside the open doors.


byron sits in the shadows across the street,
his black legs stretched to catch some sunlight,
his white socks so white they almost glow.
his feet reach for the bunches of paperwhites blooming against his porch,
as if their blossoms are the houses of the sun.



  1. i long for open doors. for blossoms. for sunshine not mixed with harsh gale force winds of blowing snow.
    for bare feet. all that is hidden under 4 feet of snow and banks pushed up as high as my house. the last days of february are only a means to get to march and then april. maybe april? maybe the snow will be gone in april.

  2. i love your everyday sunday, love that your writing fingers feel energized, love those paperwhites. i think you're right, i think they are the houses of the sun, the winter sun, anyway.

    i sighed all the way through those pinks and that yellow and that white... i can smell spring, headed up my way from your house. :)

    1. send some spring smell if it comes, back west a state or two...
      i want to smell rain. however, must admit i do love the smell of wood smoke...
      can't have it both ways, can i?
      guess i will just settle for the smell of coffee perking, and drink in the emma tree words of spring.

  3. These pink blossoms with that periwinkle-tinted sky - so so lovely! And everyday Sunday - yes, because it's you, and yes, because this is the kind of writing and observing and sharing there isn't enough of. Sunday might replace Friday as my favorite day of the week!


come. sit under the emma tree & let's talk. i have cookies . . .