text and images britt-arnhild
Outside my window, over in our neighbor´s garden, there is a birch tree. Light green in spring, sparkling green through the summer months, orange, yellow in autumn, handmade old Burano lace in winter. From my place in the sofa I look directly out to the birch. From day to day I follow its growth, its changing of season. From hour to hour I follow the sparrows and magpies resting in the birch´s branches, the wind playing with the leaves, the lace, the silhouette against the ever changing sky.
The blue hour is my favorite time of the day. The hour when the light fades and The Painter is playing with the blue and indigo colours in her palette. The hour when I sit down, thinking back on the day, clearing my mind, a few words in my diary, or several pages. The tits are flying to and from the feeder, the old man is out walking his dog, the last red leaf on the Japanese Maple falls, a squirrel comes jumping along the wall, a late spider is observing her web.
Darkness falls. I turn on the light, walk over to the kitchen, brew a pot of coffee, cut two pieces of mor´s fyrstekake, set the small table with two cups, two plates of Royal Copenhagen Blue Flower china.........and finally calls down to Terje who is renovating the washing room down in the basement: "Kaffen er klar" (coffee is ready)
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A poem can be written by you and me, but only God can write a tree
(my free translation of a small poem I love)
