the sap oozes from the fresh cut to the fir, perfuming our fingers with its wild, spicy scentRead More
I love spring anywhere, but if I could choose I would always greet it in a garden. — Ruth Stout It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. — Charles Dickens In the…Read More
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o’ the great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to…Read More
after completing messes of men, the first part of my photography project inspired by mewithoutYou’s brother, sister, cranking the second part out was surprisingly easy. as part of this shoot i learned about betta fish and discovered just how many things cockle burrs can latch onto. [and how cold 40-degree weather can be — thanks…Read More
i’ve talked before about my love for mewithoutYou’s album brother, sister, and my desire to “illustrate” it, so to speak, through photography and other media. a desire four or five years in the making finally got off the ground last march when i did two shoots based on “messes of men,” the first song on…Read More
this morning the sun
streaked the sky with ruby wonder —
but i went back to bed
is it a chain or
a root that holds us here; is
it fear or just love?
these leaves had roots once.
this sheaf was a forest
(or a tree)
and birds nested
in its branches,
from limb to limb
with death-defying grace.
on june 23, 2013,
one of the flying wallendas
crossed the grand canyon
on a tightrope,
above the river
running along the bottom.
the evening sun set the oak leaves glowing
like bronze against the still-blue sky,
and i wished i could show you
how beautiful it was, could explain
why i wished i could show you.
oh sister, bring out the butter (good)
and place it on the table there
then rest your bones
and welcome home;
for you we’ve always got a chair
i heard the voice rise and fall,
passion and hesitation twinned in its timbre.
morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
what we call the beginning is often the end.
the young grass stands slight
and fragile against the cold.