What I saw, only in words
a single water droplet dancing off the edge of the maple leaf
a young curious fox watching by the rocks of the pine wood
a soft folding flower shivering in its blanket of pink petals
What I saw, only in words
a single water droplet dancing off the edge of the maple leaf
a young curious fox watching by the rocks of the pine wood
a soft folding flower shivering in its blanket of pink petals
Not one among us remembered from yesterday the dappled grey and golden folds on the stump - the magical emergence of such strangely fascinating fungus
There’s almost no way not to lean in, not to be drawn in toward the flower buds, changing, on this tree all tilted, slanted, crooked in the soil, the Earth’s root-hold ever so precarious but forever beautiful
Listening to Blake Mills
I’m leaning in as near as I can to follow your voice, the sounds of the room where you record: fingers on the frets, a shuffle in your seat, someone wanders beyond the door, the more my eyes close to be there, the more I am
Stillness settles in, a slow unwinding; Maybe we’re finding stillness, settling in
The image of him sits in the cloud, as he hands me hailstones, ice rocks from the sky, the fallen remains of Spring's darkest clouds gathering
The concert begins before we're in our seats – I'm asleep but the birds don't care
Forced to reckon only in pieces – where this fits that, and that fits this – the whole of it reduced in view to interlocking decisions and machined parts, we trade places hourly, my work building on hers; hers, on mine
Walk gently through white - the discards of night — whether blossoms or snow, or both
Nothing breaks the quiet with the urgency of the Pileated Woodpecker - its hammering head on the tree like a snare, a syncopated jazz jam of the wood – channeling Blakey, Krupa, Williams, Rich; scratching the itch to find rhythm in anything