Wednesday, May 27, 2009


Seasons, moons, measures of time
Markers to define moments mine
Mountain, valley and soaring plain
Vistas of purpose I to proclaim
Ascension, the soul's spirit and questing plight
To be free and embraced by God's knowing light
The snow a gossamer veil and blanket to be
Quiet is its touch gentle upon me
A calling silence I hear with each step I take
As I look behind 'tis my path in snow I make
Rippling waves of wind, untempered, untamed
From a direction it is so named
Wild and possessing these winds that enfold
It is the story of the West Wind that is here told
Seasons, moons, measures of time
Markers to define moments mine.

Rose Marie Raccioppi

As I listen to Debussy, Preludes, Book 1

Les Collines d'Anacapri
The Hills of Anacapri
Des pas sur la neige
Footprints in the Snow
Ce qu'a vu le vent d'Ouest
What the West Wind Saw

Snow Storm: Hannibal and His Army Crossing the Alps, 1812, oil on canvas, Joseph Mallord William Turner, British, 1775–1851


  1. Nothing is lost here. EVerything gets a turn.

  2. Rosaria, and so the intent... Dialogue of the Muses. Thank you for knowing.

  3. "Seasons, moons, measures of time" - something I've had on my mind a lot lately...this passing of time...

    Beautifully, you've captured it.

  4. Karen, I too, hold the place of grandmother - this and time have intimate connections...