707

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The Grace–Myself–might not obtain–

Confer upon My flower–

Refracted but a Countenance–

For I–inhabit Her–


—Emily Dickinson

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like this

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i may never stop watching this ...
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a blessing

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Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

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blueskythinking
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know deeply

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Go deeper than love, for the soul has greater depths,
love is like the grass, but the heart is deep wild rock
molten, yet dense and permanent.

Go down to your deep old heart, and lose sight of yourself.
And lose sight of me, the me whom you turbulently loved.

Let us lose sight of ourselves, and break the mirrors.
For the fierce curve of our lives is moving again to the depths
out of sight, in the deep living heart.

But say, in the dark wild metal of your heart

is there a gem, which came into being between us?

is there a sapphire of mutual trust, a blue spark?

Is there a ruby of fused being, mine and yours, an inward glint?

If there is not, O then leave me, go away.

For I cannot be bullied back into the appearances of love,

any more than August can be bullied to look like March.

Love out of season, especially at the end of the season

is merely ridiculous.

If you insist on it, I insist on departure.

Have you no deep old heart of wild womanhood

self-forgetful, and gemmed with experience,

and swinging in a strange union of power

with the heart of the man you are supposed to have loved?

If you have not, go away.

If you can only sit with a mirror in your hand, an ageing woman

posing on and on as a lover,

in love with a self that now is shallow and withered,

your own self–that has passed like a last summer’s flower–

then go away–

I do not want a woman whom age cannot wither.

She is a made-up lie, a dyed immortelle

of infinite staleness.

—D. H. Lawrence
Know Deeply, Know Thyself More Deeply
to his wife

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The Lady and the Fish

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A lady carry a fish in a bag. She rides a motorbike, wear a yellow and stripes skirt, 

and some house and other trees in the back. Slugs love her, everyone loves her

–Pablo Luebert

💗

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vivre !
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