Oh the glory when you ran outside with your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied and you told me not to follow you.
desenharts:

by Thetinytotem

desenharts:

by Thetinytotem

naimabarcelona:

Crochet Sweater & Triple Chain Harness

naimabarcelona:

Crochet Sweater & Triple Chain Harness

All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.

Meditation at Lagunitas, Robert Hass

http://honeychurch.tumblr.com/

adarasanchez:

Romance VII.*Based on a photograph by Álvaro Cantero.

adarasanchez:

Romance VII.
*Based on a photograph by Álvaro Cantero.

poisonappleprintshop:

A french twist with my Elemental Child Nuit crown.

poisonappleprintshop:

A french twist with my Elemental Child Nuit crown.

desenharts:

by Paper Fashion

desenharts:

by Paper Fashion

We love like cedars. I remember as a child learning the phrase

“a catch in the throat” and thinking it beautiful, thinking it strange,

how words are like bees that sting our insides and turn them to buzzed,

buzzed as in after a few good beers, buzzed as in electric,

and I love you like that, with my heart caught in my throat too

in the shape of a whisper, with the whisper casting a shadow

in the shape of the word yes.

And yes, I do hold myself responsible, I hold you responsible

for holding me like you’d never let go; we love like cedars,

like trees that are like hands reaching to the sky.

If I were syntax you’d be the semantics to my every exhale,

you’d be the only decipherer of this foreign language,

these forgotten hieroglyphics that I call my heart.

It’s perfect, isn’t it, how the sounds we make together

could only be called language, how our bodies

are simultaneously the best escape we’ve ever had

and the very worst.

We spellcheck each other’s sighs, and we love like apple trees:

starting from dirt, from roots, into blossom.

We planted, we grew, and then we knew:

our love was not the pause the comma makes,

but instead everything

a blank page cannot say.

Love As Language, Language As Love

http://writingsforwinter.tumblr.com/

Theme by Septim