Granny Smith

I was in a panic yesterday when I accessed this site and found that all of my pictures - every single one except my own ID one at the right - had gone missing, leaviing a blank space. I fussed with all sorts of potential on-line help, found that others were having the same problem, finally joined the "blogger help group" and found that the problem was temporary. What a relief!
I forgot to give credit to the two photographers of my great-grandchildren in the Easter and spring pictures below.. Summer and Baxter's photo was lifted from Daria's Day blog (with permission).The photographer was Daria Bishop, their mother, who is a professional photographer. Jon's picture was taken by another granddaughter, Josie Andersen, and is from her blog, Jonster's Days .
Recently I discovered another blog that I find cleverly written and illustrated, Peacock Blue . She posts many striking photos, but two recent ones, one is of a sunset, another of an egret that she spotted nearby, inspired me to post the following urban landscapes.

This is an early morning shot of San Francisco taken from my bedroom window. It was taken with telephoto and trimmed. Clouds obscure the background hills. The large black building is the Bank of America building, the spire is the Trans-America pyramid.

This capture of a rainbow was made by my son-in-law, Clinton Shock, who was out for an early morning jog. It is taken from a viewpoint about halfway down our block where several lots are too steep for building, thus opening this view to the west, of Berkely, Albany, the Bay and the Golden Gate. Our hills rise steeply behind him, still shading the lower branches of the trees and the rising sun behind him touches their tops. Squally March weather with misty showers probably explains the rainbow.

.California poppies. What else better expresses a California spring?

Here is my own poetic expression of spring:

Spring Is...

Spring is not allegory. It is weighed
in density of sound from drunken bees,
intensity of sky, contrast of shade
and glinting leaf, the whisper brush of breeze
against my sleeveless skin; and it is seen
in swooping jay's blue stitchery that sews
pure cherry blossom white to tender green.
Spring is the sun-baked boards between my toes,
strawberries tart on tongue, the first warm night
that lilac scent, as thick as honey, pours
through open windows, moths around the light
and filmy dust of pollen on the floors.
Don't try to find a meaning or define,
for spring is real, and here, and now, and mine.