a life incredible, vivid, excellent.
“Is the spring coming?” he said. “What is it like?”…
“It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine…”
― Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
“Oh, look how beautiful the sun is shining through the trees!” I said, drunk on the last golden light of evening glowing through the golden leaves of the ginko trees.
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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…
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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…
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There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
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…
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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…
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the following photos illustrate the story of ingrid … but what precisely that story is remains for you to discover. innocence abroad and the gogglette bring you … the spy who stayed out in the cold.
Read Morei know you’ll forget
but the sunset is golden
against the bare elms
every year the dish looms before me on the thanksgiving buffet, its lurid contents lurking, watching for the next innocent plate to appear.
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sometimes the light
hits the golden leaves
just so, and i forget to breathe
distress is what i feel at the thought
of four poems yet to be written
when it would have been ideal
to have had them done a week ago
billy (bless him) says
the trouble with poetry
is that it inspires the writing
of more poetry
all the flowers in the wild garden
have yielded their spirits to autumn’s chill
and become dry brown ghosts, their seeds
falling out of cracked heads and cones
i woke one morn in winter past
the world still hushed and sleeping fast
tell me one thing before you go
— i would not ask you to stay —
what’s the sweetest thing you know?
according to family lore
we own all of old Baltimore
last thanksgiving granny gave me her dollies
we carefully lifted them from their wrappings
smoothed their skirts, their faces
said their names