we pulled the leaves from the dill plants and the night fell with its fragrance
with their humble happiness, the pumpkins beckoned
there was a bit of melancholy about the place; the distressed beauty of willful neglect but also a prescience in the way the sun fell in random slices through the thick afternoon clouds
she laughed when I ran outside to shoot the morning frost on the leaves and so I scampered, crunching the grass, taking the shots quickly, leaving an exhaled breath behind me
Leaves stick to the bottom of our boots and gather in the kitchen where the shoes are haphazardly discarded. But the leaves, in all of their brittle and scampering leafiness, travel throughout the house on the edges of a passing breeze— resurfacing on a worn blanket or in the corner by a basket of pine cones.
youth, sadness and shooting stars,
rainy mornings and happy afternoons,
sometimes a broken heart and sometimes a broken promise,
anger and a small child’s laughter,
a full moon and an autumn breeze,
a late summer sun on fresh flowers,
a day at the lake, a lark, a laugh, a life
August 1850
As my eye rested on the blossom of the meadow–sweet in a hedge, I heard the note of an autumnal cricket, and was penetrated with the sense of autumn. Was it sound? or was it form? or was it scent? or was it flavor? It is now the royal month of August.
The question is not what you look at, but what you see.
Excerpt from the book: The Journal 1837-1861 by Henry David Thoreau
butterflies and dragonflies and dragons (admittedly not far since their wings are often smaller than their bodies)
insects and bats and some squirrels (although in a mostly coasting fashion)
planes and helicopters and some pigs (almost never, but who am I to say?)
imagination and time (not exclusively when having fun) and excuses (some are said to not fly, but the best ones often try)
time falls and drifts
like rain that mists
on a hot summer day,
evaporating before our very eyes–
slanting sideways into the future
“I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses.”
from the book, This Side of Paradise, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1920
beauty in a dying tulip
synchronicity of color
ferns stretching, unfurling
old metal jugs against wood grain
early morning sun on the curtain
+
spanishwoods 