A farm-dog barked far across the valley, fixing the time and distance exactly. Warned by the dog and some hooting owls, I could sense the night valley emptying, stretching in mists of stars and water, growing slowly more secret and late.
from Cider with Rosie by Laurie Lee, 1959
vases with faces and pine cones for hats
books strewn here and there about painted houses and childhood ramblings and motorcycle journeys in the sun
coffee brewing and candles burning and fox calls in the dead of night
city streets and secret gardens
sparkling rivers dressed in a winter sun
postcards from Chagall
he noticed the shadow from the dried flowers on the sill—
and it’s that noticing of something so slight,
so seemingly inconsequential
that brings love closer
It was named after Paeon, a physician to the gods, who obtained the plant on Mount Olympus from the mother of Apollo. Once planted the Peony likes to be left alone and punishes those who try to move it by not flowering again for several years. Once established, however, it produces spendid blooms each year for decades.
From Penhaligon’s Scented Treasury of Verse and Prose: The Language of Flowers, 1990
a frosted palette of grays
reflects the sentiment of these winter days
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
fox tails in the night
the crows at dawn
shadows on the snow
a soft crunch under worn boots
deep deer tracks
and
a bracing wind
words drifted—
brittle and dry
the winter sun seeps through brittle leaves
and hope rises
spanishwoods 