Wednesday, October 27, 2010

death as a form of creation


.



.



Saturday, October 23, 2010

Visiting the Graveyard



When I think of death
it is a bright enough city,
and every year more faces there
are familiar

but not a single one
notices me,
though I long for it,
and when they talk together,

which they do
very quietly,
it's in an unknowable language -
I can catch the tone

but understand not a single word -
and when I open my eyes
there's the mysterious field, the beautiful trees.
There are the stones.


- Mary Oliver
Red Bird 


via  whisky river



image
.

Saturday, October 2, 2010