Tag: Beauty
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Harvest Song
Riding down the country road, nothing’s lonely asa dirty pickup truck, a creaking saddleand wind blowing;nothing’s empty asover the open plaina desert skysifting the sand;nothing’s sadder thanwandering trails,always searchingthe golden fieldsfor a dream;you’ll only hearthe warm autumn sunturning the grain to gold,the song of the saddleand old days rememberedwhen you are lonesome, too;searching the skywhen…
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The Bookmark: August
Blossoming Almond Branch in a Glass with a Book, Vincent van Gogh,1888, oil on canvas, Arles, France. August tends to feel momentous. One notices a feeling in the air. There’s a birthday. There’s the end of summer that’s so sad and sweet at the same time. There’s the garden harvest that’s now or never. There’s…
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The Bookmark: June
Blossoming Almond Branch in a Glass with a Book, Vincent van Gogh,1888, oil on canvas, Arles, France. A bobolink flies from post to post in front of me as I take my walk. That’s what pulls me out every day to see if he’s still there. I’m not sure how many walks I will have…
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The Bookmark: May
Blossoming Almond Branch in a Glass with a Book, Vincent vanGogh,1888, oil on canvas, Arles, France. As I sit on the porch on an early summer afternoon, the clouds are gathering. To the south and west some blue sky is visible, but all other parts of the sky are shades of gray, gray-blue and sun…
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An Obligation to Beauty
Christina’s World, Andrew Wyeth, 1948, Contemporary Realism A lawn is nature under totalitarian rule. -Michael Pollen in Second Nature Apparently, our yard is particularly suited to the thistle. I have never seen such huge, healthy plants. The stems are easily an inch in diameter, the leaves are a foot long and three inches wide, with…
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The Bookmark: April
Blossoming Almond Branch in a Glass with a Book, Vincent vanGogh,1888, oil on canvas, Arles, France. An inch of rain is predicted today, starting at 11. As I am writing the skies are clear. I have plans to pull weeds if it doesn’t rain, and to sew a dress if it does. I guess I…
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In Poetry We Say…
Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar. –Percy Bysshe Shelley The Donkey When fishes flew and forests walked And figs grew upon thorn,Some moment when the moon was blood Then surely I was born.With monstrous head and sickening cry And…
So She Reads 