Today, as so many of us here in the States board planes or toss bags into cars to rush home for the Thanksgiving holiday, I thought I’d share this little snatch of a poem from Mary Oliver. Somehow it just seems right: Happy Thanksgiving, friends … Today I’m wishing you a little space to draw a […]
This time of year, I can’t watch a single leaf spiraling to earth without thinking of a certain special poem by E.E. Cummings … Strung together like a necklace of cranberries on a thread, his letters make up what I consider to be the most exquisite little poem I’ve ever encountered: l(a le af fa ll s) one l iness […]
maybe the raindropsare just diamonds maybe those gray cloudsare hammered silver maybe these wet leavesare a red carpet this long wintera white blanket that we pull over usuntil it’s warm. ❤
oh God, open my eyesto the magic of small things: sunsetlight,puddlesplash,slow liquid gold … scatter of leaveson black ribbon of road … bonewhite branches,frost-sequined field, frostcrunch,snowshush … my two knees’twin prints on holy ground. ❤
From now until January 1, three times a week I’ll be sharing with you some of my all-time favorite posts — you might think of it as a curated collection of the Best of Alpha // Whiskey // Foxtrot. In between, there’ll be space for new photos, new words and new wonder: a mingling […]
i smooth my soulinto somethingalmost like silence: the river at rest is the one that reflects the sky. ❤
… to speak the song the cicadas are singing —that murmur and hum filling the trees.But their song is wholly their own,and no matter what words I use,mine would only be a poor copy —and why bother to copy such a thing,when anyone can go out on a summer nightand sit spellbound to the soundof the original? But […]
For T, who wears the ring that matches mine: let’s make a spacefor the spunsilk oftoo much talk slideways,slippery,wordslip between lips & too muchtongue– slowslid,slowtongued,silklipped& loving– tonight let’s talk until 2 a.m.
Teach me that – sometimes – to lie down in a green fieldis to be slain in the spirit … To learn the call of the mockingbird is to speak in tongues … And to walk with head unbowedunder the blue skyis to stare at the ceilingof your Sistine Chapel … painted and repainted by the minute […]
i go down into the liquid riverdark: wet. moon-lap leaf-light, white. the river in my mouth and the light in the river– Go on, moongirl: swim.