Danielle Haynes Feerick
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dkfeerick.bsky.social
Danielle Haynes Feerick
@dkfeerick.bsky.social
150 followers 480 following 160 posts
Ex-pat New Englander in Rochester NY. DIY enthusiast.
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dkfeerick.bsky.social
Misfire at the #geneseekegtree lighting ceremony
December 6, 2025 at 2:00 AM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
Gotta love peony season 🌱
Pink and white peonies in a recycled turquoise gin bottle
June 15, 2025 at 10:24 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
Rain on & off all day, but turning into a beautiful night
Kodak tower from Innovative field at sunset
May 17, 2025 at 11:47 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
Let's hope this bodes well for the home team! #RochesterNY
Double rainbow all the way across the sky in right field
May 17, 2025 at 11:33 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
Found the sparrow nest!
6 light blue speckled eggs in a nest lined partially with moss from the lawn
May 12, 2025 at 5:23 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
This is in one of the dwarf Alberta spruce that flanks our front door. There's a sparrow nest in the other one, but I haven't found it yet.
4 blue eggs in a nest surrounded by evergreenery
May 10, 2025 at 9:47 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
As I leave work on a Friday evening at 7:15, no lies detected.
Paper plate award: "Hardest working APP Danielle, thanks for all you do for our patients at GOG!!" Full disclosure: I was the only APP working today, so by default I was the hardest working.
May 9, 2025 at 11:22 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
Things to do in th Belly of the Whale
Dan Albergotti
Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days. Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals. Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices. Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you. Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart. Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope, where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all the things you did and could have done. Remember treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.
April 30, 2025 at 4:49 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
Arrythmia
Hailey Leithauser
The heart of a bear is a cloud-shuttered mountain. The heart of a mountain’s a kiln. The white heart of a moth has nineteen white chambers. The heart of a swan is a swan. The heart of a wasp is a prick of plush. The heart of a skunk is a mink. The heart of an owl is part blood and part chalice. The fey mouse heart rides a dawdy dust-cart. The heart of a kestrel hides a house wren at nest. The heart of lark is a czar. The heart of a scorpion is swidden and spark. The heart of a shark is a gear. Listen and tell, thrums the grave heart of humans. Listen well love, for it’s pitch dark down here.
April 29, 2025 at 4:32 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
Why read poetry if it won't make you rich?
Joy Sullivan
For starters, your soul will get bigger. Your love, more terrible and luminous. Soon you'll say tender things at parties after too much champagne. A sidewalk quince, wet with midnight, will stop you in your tracks. In time, you'll find the perfect metaphor for your child's face. All at once you'll see the world and want it again: clothes flapping on the line, lilacs strewn and seeding, the luck of worms. An artichoke with its heart torn hot and steaming from the throbbing crown will suddenly turn you on.
April 28, 2025 at 5:28 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
Illicit happiness in Boston
Street graffiti of an abstract face on brick, with caption "illicit happiness" printed in block letters above
April 27, 2025 at 5:19 PM
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Some glad morning
Joyce Sutphen
One day, something very old happened again. The green came back to the branches, settling like leafy birds on the highest twigs; the ground broke open as dark as coffee beans. The clouds took up their positions in the deep stadium of the sky, gloving the bright orb of the sun before they pitched it over the horizon. It was as good as ever: the air was filled with the scent of lilac s and cherry blossoms sounded their long whistle down the track It was some glad morning.
April 27, 2025 at 5:15 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
God says yes to me
Kaylin Haught
I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic and she said yes I asked her if it was okay to be short and she said it sure is I asked her if I could wear nail polish or not wear nail polish and she said honey she calls me that sometimes she said you can do just exactly what you want to Thanks God I said And is it even okay if I don't paragraph my letters Sweetcakes God said who knows where she picked that up what I'm telling you is Yes Yes Yes
April 27, 2025 at 12:14 AM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
My Name
Mark Strand
One night when the lawn was a golden green and the marbled moonlit trees rose like fresh memorials in the scented air, and the whole countryside pulsed with the chirr and murmur of insects, I lay in the grass feeling the great distances open above me, and wondered what I would become-and where I would find myself- and though I barely existed, I felt for an instant that the vast star-clustered sky was mine, and I heard my name as if for the first time, heard it the way one hears the wind or the rain, but faint and far off as though it belonged not to me but to the silence from which it had come and to which it would go.
April 25, 2025 at 4:24 PM
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April morning
Jonathan Wells
You are living the life you wanted as if you'd known what that was but of course you didn't so you'd groped toward it feeling for what you couldn't imagine, what your hands couldn't tell you, for what that shape could be. This Sunday the rain turns cold again and steady but the window is slightly open and there is the vaguest sense of bird song somewhere in the gaps between the buildings because it's spring the calendar says and the room where you are reading is empty yet full of what loves you and this is the day that you were born.
April 24, 2025 at 5:24 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
Sonnet 71: No longer mourn for me when I am dead
William Shakespeare
No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell; Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O, if (I say) you look upon this verse, When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone.
April 23, 2025 at 11:32 PM
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What you gain from walking
Rachel Huckel
I know where the marigolds bloom, the days the council more the lawns. I know the lemons are a week away from ripe, the households that haven't taken down their Christmas lights. I know where to find the dogs that will greet you with glee as you pass their gate, the gatesits in your best interest to speed walk by. I know why that shop shut down (I saw the handwritten sign in the window). I know where the rock juts out from the walkway (I tripped on it last week). There used to be a time I thought the only knowledge I needed to gain was the kind that made me useful. I fear i am losing valuable real estate in my mind, for lately I have been renting it out to facts that are utterly useless. I feel they are making me richer.
April 21, 2025 at 11:07 PM
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Citizen of Dark Times
Kim Stafford
Agenda in a time of fear: Be not afraid. When things go wrong, do right. Set out by the half-light of the seeker. For the well-lit problem begins to heal. Learn tropism toward the difficult. We have not arrived to explain, but to sing. Young idealism ripens into an ethical life. Prune back regret to let faith grow. When you hit rock bottom, dig farther down. Grief is the seed of singing, shame the seed of song. Keep seeing what you are not saying. Plunder your reticence. Songbird guards a twig, its only weapon a song.
April 20, 2025 at 12:02 PM
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Thank You
By Ross Gay
If you find yourself half naked and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing, again, the earth's great, sonorous moan that says you are the air of the now and gone, that says all you love will turn to dust, and will meet you there, do not raise your fist. Do not raise your small voice against it. And do not take cover. Instead, curl your toes into the grass, watch the cloud ascending from your lips. Walk through the garden's dormant splendor. Say only, thank you. Thank you.
April 19, 2025 at 5:04 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
How to listen
James Crews
Listening is a form of worship, but you don't have to kneel on the floor with folded hands or mouth the perfect prayer. Just open the door of yourself to another, become the space they step through to show you who they are. This is holiness: two people seated together on the pew of a park bench, at the altar of a kitchen table. Even if no one says a word for a while, receive the silence until it's like a new language only the two of you can speak.
April 18, 2025 at 1:09 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
Beloved
E. Ethelbert Miller
Please forgive me for forgetting. I wanted to go outside and look for you. I was told this was impossible. I was instructed to stay indoors. But my words for you need sun. My heart needs air. I love you Spring. I miss your warmth. Come unlock my door.
April 17, 2025 at 12:05 PM
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My dreams, my works, must wait till after hell
Gwendolyn Brooks
I hold my honey and I store my bread In little jars and cabinets of my will. I label clearly, and each latch and lid I bid, Be firm till I return from hell. I am very hungry. I am incomplete. And none can tell when I may dine again. No man can give me any word but Wait, The puny light. I keep eyes pointed in; Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt Drag out to their last dregs and I resume On such legs as are left me, in such heart As I can manage, remember to go home, My taste will not have turned insensitive To honey and bread old purity could love.
April 16, 2025 at 11:37 AM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
Snowdrops
Louise Gluck
Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know what despair is; then winter should have meaning for you. I did not expect to survive, earth suppressing me. I didn't expect to waken again, to feel in damp earth my body able to respond again, remembering after so long how to open again in the cold light of earliest spring-- afraid, yes, but among you again crying yes risk joy in the raw wind of the new world.
April 15, 2025 at 10:20 PM
dkfeerick.bsky.social
In the meantime
By Tom Hirons
Meanwhile, flowers still bloom. The moon rises, and the sun. Babies smile and somewhere, Against all the odds, Two people are falling in love. Strangers share cigarettes and jokes. Light plays on the surface of water. Grace occurs on unlikely streets And we hold each other fast Against entropy, the fires and the flood. Life leans towards living And, while death claims all things at the end, There were such precious times between, In which everything was radiant And we loved, again, this world.
April 14, 2025 at 12:13 PM
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I Allow Myself
By Dorothea Grossman
I allow myself the luxury of breakfast (I am no nun, for Christ’s sake). Charmed as I am by the sputter of bacon, and the eye-opening properties of eggs, it’s the coffee that’s really sacramental. In the old days, I spread fires and floods and pestilence on my toast. Nowadays, I’m more selective, I only read my horoscope by the quiet glow of the marmalade.
April 13, 2025 at 4:28 PM