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Tiny flowers that have just hatched. I do not know what it is. I took the picture last night while walking my dog with the mini pocket, attracted by those little colors in nature is still sleeping through the winter. You may notice how this plant is hardy and very green. Thank you for sharing your knowledge if you know what it is. Good day
fleas. Ivano
Michelle Lally Dear Ivano, I think a plant of the Alps of Provence, called "crane's beak" of the scree or Erodium cicutarium. Thank you for all these beauties flourish '.
http://fr.wikipedia.org/wi ki / File: Erodium_cicutar ium03.jpg
Yes, yes, exactly! I love your knowledge my great Friends! We complement well. It's fun.
http://fr.wikipedia.org/wi ki / Erodium_cicutarium
"Flowering time depends on the location of the plant. It is, for example, between April and September in temperate Europe and between February and May / June in the southwestern United States. " Owl, a great American back with no us!!
* Albert Samain (1858-1900)
An hour strikes in the distance ...
An hour strikes in the distance. - I do not know where I go.
... Oh! My heart is so full of you, if you knew!
I see you, I hear you. Before me a lone appearance
white borders on earth,
Like a fairy at the bottom of clearings in the evening.
And the shadow of love so radiant to behold, she
your eyes, emerald eyes, my life,
Whose strange sweetness to invite long dreams,
As the deep blue sea or sky ;
And her dress slipping pleated silent
Her dress is yours too, my beloved,
Your dress bohemian corrugator and lame
Where gold from the silk turns many a flash You dress
, sheath thin, warm of your flesh,
Whose only memory, flicking my nostril, Done
run a stream of love in my chest ...
I am alone. Silence filled the deserted quays.
The core of spring flowers in the air exhaled. It's a warm night
lover or a poet,
And I love the soul and love to the head,
And I thirst for your eyes to my knees!
They are unconnected words, and gestures so sweet
they seem afraid to touch, hands clasped,
Desires by instant as spikes acute
And nerves tense the neck heel
All the lost soul after his violin
Who sings and sobs and cries and groans,
The spirit of a great child feverish and pale ...
cabs roll backward into the distance. Under the trees moved
chills uncertain
breezes gently flowing, lukewarm,
And the heart as poignant melodies. The river ripples
deaf languishing in memories
And I have a whole bunch of stars in the heart!
I love you. My blood screams at you. I have fever
From drinking that night at your ideal lip
Expand under your feet, like a coat king
My life and you say, oh! To say: "You"
With languor so tender and deep feeling
What's on you, your flesh, all is based.
fleas. Ivano
Michelle Lally Dear Ivano, I think a plant of the Alps of Provence, called "crane's beak" of the scree or Erodium cicutarium. Thank you for all these beauties flourish '.
http://fr.wikipedia.org/wi
Yes, yes, exactly! I love your knowledge my great Friends! We complement well. It's fun.
http://fr.wikipedia.org/wi
"Flowering time depends on the location of the plant. It is, for example, between April and September in temperate Europe and between February and May / June in the southwestern United States. " Owl, a great American back with no us!!
* Albert Samain (1858-1900)
An hour strikes in the distance ...
An hour strikes in the distance. - I do not know where I go.
... Oh! My heart is so full of you, if you knew!
I see you, I hear you. Before me a lone appearance
white borders on earth,
Like a fairy at the bottom of clearings in the evening.
And the shadow of love so radiant to behold, she
your eyes, emerald eyes, my life,
Whose strange sweetness to invite long dreams,
As the deep blue sea or sky ;
And her dress slipping pleated silent
Her dress is yours too, my beloved,
Your dress bohemian corrugator and lame
Where gold from the silk turns many a flash You dress
, sheath thin, warm of your flesh,
Whose only memory, flicking my nostril, Done
run a stream of love in my chest ...
I am alone. Silence filled the deserted quays.
The core of spring flowers in the air exhaled. It's a warm night
lover or a poet,
And I love the soul and love to the head,
And I thirst for your eyes to my knees!
They are unconnected words, and gestures so sweet
they seem afraid to touch, hands clasped,
Desires by instant as spikes acute
And nerves tense the neck heel
All the lost soul after his violin
Who sings and sobs and cries and groans,
The spirit of a great child feverish and pale ...
cabs roll backward into the distance. Under the trees moved
chills uncertain
breezes gently flowing, lukewarm,
And the heart as poignant melodies. The river ripples
deaf languishing in memories
And I have a whole bunch of stars in the heart!
I love you. My blood screams at you. I have fever
From drinking that night at your ideal lip
Expand under your feet, like a coat king
My life and you say, oh! To say: "You"
With languor so tender and deep feeling
What's on you, your flesh, all is based.
* Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869)
The vine and the house (II)
Yet the evening falls and serene languor
... That gives the end all to happiness as to sentences;
The shroud itself is warm to the heart buried:
was emptied her eyes with her last tears, the soul
to despair is sad charms
And lost happiness flees into oblivion.
This hour is to our sense impressions of soft
Like walking on tiptoe foams:
is the bitter sweetness of the kiss goodbye.
From the air more transparent crystal is clear,
Words sprayed the blue wave and liquid
Getting back with the blue skies.
I do not know how far it bathes the whole thing look
As the ear is resting,
means in the ether drag any flight
is the foot of the bird on the branch leaning,
Or a falling fruit detached from the branch
Falling weight on the ground.
the first light of dawn chilly,
We see these floating son whose blank spinner
From tree to tree in the orchard has built the network:
White fleece air that the fog still wet,
Who drags on our steps, as the distaff
A wire behind after the Zone. For
precarious warmth of misleading fall
In the oblique ray midge abounds,
Ready to die from their first breath to chill;
desert And on the threshold of the hive numb,
Some bee late that goes out and begging,
Fits heavy honey in his hot jail.
Come recognize the place where your life was new,
Hast thou sweetness, tell me, poor soul widow
here to stir the ashes of the dead day?
To see your bush and your house empty
As the winged insect is reviewing its chrysalis
sweepings which was his body?
I, the sad instinct me back:
Nothing has changed where the time;
Places where our eye moves,
Nothing that the inhabitants fled.
Am I the heart to see yet,
On the gentle slope to the south,
The vines bloom
made us crawl on the rock tepid.
Behold the stone house, which our
not availed themselves the threshold :
Seest the dress in her ivy
As a garment of mourning.
Listen to the cry of harvest
Who gets the press nearby rocky trails
See barns
reddened by the blood of grapes.
Look at the foot of roof collapses:
There, near the fig tree dried
The perennial vine that wraps
Corner chipped the wall!
Winter blackens his rough bark;
Around the bench eaten the worm,
He bypasses his arm like a snake
torso hit the iron.
past, its innumerable vines entwined around
Well, Father and mother tasted
his shadow,
Children, birds, gnawed off.
He climbed up the window, he
curving arched;
It seems we still recognize
As a dog guardian of a cradle. On this foam
alleys Where the vine blushes red,
A bunch of frozen leaves
We still houses the sun.
Vives Gleaners November
Thrushes on the cluster in mourning
Have forgotten those beautiful amber beads
kid we coveted the eye.
The radius of the night Like a piercing
oriental alabaster,
And the gold that poured sugar
Y hangs crystal tears.
Under this vine that loves you,
O my soul! do not you think
Te finally find yourself,
Despite the absence and death?
Did he not for you the delight
From warm and warming fire kindled
an old nurse who saw us at home child?
Or feel that consoles
shorn lamb out of season,
When he feels about his wool crazy
Pushing his warm fleece?
And dominabitur a mari usque ad mare
and Flumini usque ad terminos orbis terrarum.
Good day chips, soon for more photos.
... I'm off like a little breeze in the hot sun ...
file ... I like a little sparrow who sang in the day
The vine and the house (II)
Yet the evening falls and serene languor
... That gives the end all to happiness as to sentences;
The shroud itself is warm to the heart buried:
was emptied her eyes with her last tears, the soul
to despair is sad charms
And lost happiness flees into oblivion.
This hour is to our sense impressions of soft
Like walking on tiptoe foams:
is the bitter sweetness of the kiss goodbye.
From the air more transparent crystal is clear,
Words sprayed the blue wave and liquid
Getting back with the blue skies.
I do not know how far it bathes the whole thing look
As the ear is resting,
means in the ether drag any flight
is the foot of the bird on the branch leaning,
Or a falling fruit detached from the branch
Falling weight on the ground.
the first light of dawn chilly,
We see these floating son whose blank spinner
From tree to tree in the orchard has built the network:
White fleece air that the fog still wet,
Who drags on our steps, as the distaff
A wire behind after the Zone. For
precarious warmth of misleading fall
In the oblique ray midge abounds,
Ready to die from their first breath to chill;
desert And on the threshold of the hive numb,
Some bee late that goes out and begging,
Fits heavy honey in his hot jail.
Come recognize the place where your life was new,
Hast thou sweetness, tell me, poor soul widow
here to stir the ashes of the dead day?
To see your bush and your house empty
As the winged insect is reviewing its chrysalis
sweepings which was his body?
I, the sad instinct me back:
Nothing has changed where the time;
Places where our eye moves,
Nothing that the inhabitants fled.
Am I the heart to see yet,
On the gentle slope to the south,
The vines bloom
made us crawl on the rock tepid.
Behold the stone house, which our
not availed themselves the threshold :
Seest the dress in her ivy
As a garment of mourning.
Listen to the cry of harvest
Who gets the press nearby rocky trails
See barns
reddened by the blood of grapes.
Look at the foot of roof collapses:
There, near the fig tree dried
The perennial vine that wraps
Corner chipped the wall!
Winter blackens his rough bark;
Around the bench eaten the worm,
He bypasses his arm like a snake
torso hit the iron.
past, its innumerable vines entwined around
Well, Father and mother tasted
his shadow,
Children, birds, gnawed off.
He climbed up the window, he
curving arched;
It seems we still recognize
As a dog guardian of a cradle. On this foam
alleys Where the vine blushes red,
A bunch of frozen leaves
We still houses the sun.
Vives Gleaners November
Thrushes on the cluster in mourning
Have forgotten those beautiful amber beads
kid we coveted the eye.
The radius of the night Like a piercing
oriental alabaster,
And the gold that poured sugar
Y hangs crystal tears.
Under this vine that loves you,
O my soul! do not you think
Te finally find yourself,
Despite the absence and death?
Did he not for you the delight
From warm and warming fire kindled
an old nurse who saw us at home child?
Or feel that consoles
shorn lamb out of season,
When he feels about his wool crazy
Pushing his warm fleece?
And dominabitur a mari usque ad mare
and Flumini usque ad terminos orbis terrarum.
Good day chips, soon for more photos.
... I'm off like a little breeze in the hot sun ...
file ... I like a little sparrow who sang in the day
Freedom of expression does not wear that if you do not use it 
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