“Solitude suits me. Sometimes I wear my old boots and my man’s coat and sometimes I put on silk, and no one’s any the wiser, and certainly not me.”
Excerpt from the book: The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry, 2016
A feather’s not a bird
The rain is not the sea
A stone is not a mountain
But a river runs through me
Lyrics from the song, A Feather’s Not a Bird by Rosanne Cash, 2014
our lives
strike a balance between friendship
and love and loyalty—
we are positioned for direct and often indirect impacts,
even if most of the times we miss—
at least we can say
that we tried
tea with friends
naps in the sun
pecan cookies
midnight reading
impending storms
sandalwood incense
and crystals made of ice
nemophilist: (n.) a haunter of the woods; one who loves the forest and its beauty and solitude
on a walk, i collect things—
pointy things, tiny things, velvety petals, beautiful leaves, memories, wishes, small moments of peace and happiness
late into the winter,
the hellebores sprang from sleeping gardens—
and we marveled at their beauty and their hopefulness
on my shopping list: milk, bread, butter, apples, cheese, coffee
what I actually came home with: bread, pears, tiny tomatoes, incense, dark chocolate and a bottle of wine
sunflowers drying in the afternoon sun
amber honey poured into hot ginger tea
reflective golden sunsets
ripe sensual pears in a chipped bowl
single citrine leaves on bare trees
Here was yet another liminal space, a crossing point between the mundane and the magical. Winter, it seems is full of them: fleeting invitations to step out of the ordinary.
from the book, Wintering by Katherine May, 2020
spanishwoods 