a life incredible, vivid, excellent.
… But my heart is
Returned to sister winter
But my hands are
As cold as ice …
“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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For some reason that I’ve never been able to explain, I absolutely love mushrooms … except when it comes to eating them. Then I’m very picky. But when it comes to finding them in the wild, I’m endlessly fascinated by the vast array of shapes, sizes and colors they come in, their intricate details, their growth habits, uses and dangers.
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yesterday i heard a voice beyond my window calling
“sweetheart! sweetheart! sweetheart!”
with a brightness undiminished by the numbing cold.
Who will lift the shroud of night
heaven’s light fresh to reveal
overcome death’s with’ring blight
deign our wounded hearts to heal?
In much of the Northern Hemisphere the days are growing shorter, colder; the darkness catches us off guard with its earliness. The trees have passed their peak of autumn splendor and now are giving up their withered leaves one by one; the flowers are fading fast; the browning grass is going to sleep until the spring. All nature is making the long descent into winter, to the longest night of the year, but we humans rage against this dying of the light.
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tell us, bethlehem
how the King will come —
enfleshed in the frame of a
child obscure?
the Healer comes
on wings of dawn
your woeful wounds
on Him He takes
o, i forgot
to write
o Love gentle, patient, kind
make us once more wholly Thine
on this side of the
prelude to spring, all of that
secret world is gone
i know you’ll forget
but the sunset is golden
against the bare elms