The people who lived here before us
also loved these high mountain meadows on summer mornings.
They made their way up here in easy stages
when heat began to dry the valleys out,
following the berry harvest probably and the pine buds:
1/3
Maybe it was the whole primitive, hateful idea of the feminine as dark, blind, weak, and evil that I saw shaking itself to pieces, imploding, crumbling into wreckage on a desert ground. And I rejoiced to see it fall. I still do.
By morning
The brightest
blue beneath the clouds—
We guess
at what's next
unlike the mountain
who knows it
in the bones.
Welcome
the rain.
The storm lifts
up the leaves.
Why not sing.
🌬☀️
#poem Kevin Young, from 'Book of Hours'
#art Storm Dissipates: James Naughton
at night by the fire where they sat talking about how this year
was different from last year.
Told stories,
knew where they were on earth from the names,
owl moon, bear moon, gooseberry moon.
🌙
#poem 3/3 Robert Hass,
from 'Dragonflies Mating'
#art Inge Johnsson
the endless warm drizzle of spring—the ice of Antarctica, falling softly on the heads of the children of those responsible for melting it.
I offer you
essence of summer
in my two hands,
as I might plums
in a silver cup
piled up with the whole
of my heart
🍋
#poem L.C. Goodwin
#art Stefano Carnicio
climbing and making camp and gathering,
then breaking camp and climbing and making camp and gathering.
A few miles a day. They sent out the children
to dig up bulbs of the mariposa lilies that they liked to roast
2/3
“And how odd the directions will look! Alice’s Right Foot, Esq., Hearthrug, near the Fender, (with Alice’s love).”
