How early in the year it begins to be late! It matters not by how little we have fallen behind: it seems irretrievably late. The year is full of warnings of its shortness, as is life.
from The Journal 1837–1861 by Henry David Thoreau
Excerpt
Ferocity
she was a wild and tangled mass of ferocity
Lately
insects that look like green leaves
dreams that hang about like languid strings
soap that smell like sweet roses
laughter that soars like paper airplanes
Excerpt
The more thrilling, wonderful, divine objects I behold in a day, the more expanded and immortal I become.
from The Journal 1837–1861 by Henry David Thoreau
an early morning
white satin moths fly through early morning fog
as i sit on the side porch in the hushed silence,
with my coffee and thoreau
Not her
he did not choose her
Away
she turned away
