Death or the long sleep, is a subject that I am endlessly interested in. There is such beautiful decay around us in everyday winter fading. Maybe we are divided into those who . . .
"Well, I think that the threshold — if you go back to the etymology of the word “threshold,” it comes from “threshing,” which is to separate the grain from the . . .
"I see myself on the underworld side of that water, the darkness coming in fast, saying all the names I know for a lost land:" From The Lost Land by Eavan . . .
There's an exquisite late blooming iris outside my window. It catches the precious dewey light and as everything around it is dying back, grabs the spotlight at . . .
And somehow, yet again, everything came into bloom. Everything at once, so here I am celebrating the cultivated and the pristine. Sometimes the owners of land, property and gardens allow . . .