Fixing lunch yesterday, I found a small heart. Resting in the sack of potatoes,
Just waiting for me to notice it!
There it is…that confirmation that love always surrounds us.
┊ ♥
♥
Love shows up in every single place we go. It waits for us…all we have to is look.
In the space of heartbeat…the Universe tells us we never stand alone.
Love,
Linda
Life on a Colorado Farm 
Nicely done!
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Thank you!!!
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Such a very nice post, Linda. 😊
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Hugs to you, my friend!
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😊😊😊
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that’s cute. 🙂
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It tasted good also! 🙂
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Love and wisdom from potatoes… The universe is a wonderful place!
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Yes! We are all so lucky!
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Cool! So true.
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🙂
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You are so right, love does surround us, in one shape or form!
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It will survive us, which is a very good thing.
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♡
Thanks for this…
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Do you know the Philip Larkin poem ‘An Arundel Tomb’ Linda? Reading this post I feel sure you would love it – do look it up on the internet and let me know what you think of it.
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I love it! No I did not know the poem–here it is for others:An Arundel Tomb
Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd–
The little dogs under their feet.
Such plainess of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.
They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends could see:
A sculptor’s sweet comissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.
They would not guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
Their air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they
Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,
Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:
Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone finality
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.
— Philip Larkin. This is the last poem in his 1964 book The Whitsun Weddings,
I love the last line. Thank you, Pat! Thank you
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