I am a feather on the bright sky I am the blue horse that runs in the plain I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water I am the shadow that follows a child I am the evening light, the lustre of meadows I am an eagle playing with the wind I am…
We have a beautiful mother Her hills are buffaloes Her buffaloes hills. We have a beautiful mother Her oceans are wombs Her wombs oceans. We have a beautiful mother Her teeth the white stones at the edge of the water the summer grasses her plentiful hair. We have a beautiful mother Her green lap immense…
One day it’s the clouds, one day the mountains. One day the latest bloom of roses—the pure monochromes, the dazzling hybrids—inspiration for the cathedral’s round windows. Every now and then there’s the splendor of thought: the singular idea and its brilliant retinue— words, cadence, point of view, little gold arrows flitting between the lines. And…
Kingfisher: the colour-giver, fire-bringer, flame-flicker, river’s quiver. Ink-black bill, orange throat, and a quick blue back-gleaming feather-stream. Neat and still it sits on the snag of a stick, until with… Gold-flare, wing-fan, whipcrack the kingfisher – zingfisher, singfisher- Flashes down too fast to follow, quick and quicker carves its hollow In the water, slings its…
The eyes of the future are looking back at us, and they are praying that we might see beyond our own time. They are kneeling with hands clasped that we might act with restraint, that we might leave room for the life that is destined to come. To protect what is wild is to protect…
grace gives me a day too beautiful I had thought to stay indoors & yet washing my dishes straightening my shelves finally throwing out the wilted onions shrunken garlic cloves I discover I am happy to be inside looking out. This, I think, is wealth. Just this choosing of how a beautiful day is spent.…
I have been trying to read the script cut in these hills— a language carved in the shimmer of stubble and the solid lines of soil, spoken in the thud of apples falling and the rasp of corn stalks finally bare. The pheasants shout it with a rusty creak as they gather in the fallen…
The good news they do not print. The good news we do print. We have a special edition every moment, and we need you to read it. The good news is that you are alive, that the linden tree is still there, standing firm in the harsh winter. The good news is that you have…
Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean – the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down…