
it was a morning filled with fog
and a blanket of silence
it was a morning filled with fog
and a blanket of silence
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
as the sun goes down,
ghosts gather
there is always sunlight ahead–
even through the thickest, darkest forest,
the morning will break through the night
with them,
i remember who i am
sometimes in the middle of the day,
your words haunt me
and i am suddenly paralyzed by grief
i watched the leaves fall gently from the trees
and for just a single moment, i thought the trees were crying