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 |    Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
   L'aura del campo 'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos' ♣ Federico García Lorca ♣  L'aura del campo. A breeze in the meadow. So it began the last day of Spring, 2005; on the 16th day of the month of Light of the year 162. This is a supplement to my daily journal written to a friend, my muse; notes I do not share. Here I will share what the breeze has whispered to me. PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS! I L  V COMMENTS!On a practical note, in answer to your questions: IN MEMORIUM VerySara  passed away November 12, 2005 Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings. More suggested links:  These pictures rotate.   Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish |
| Or maybe a letter in poetic form? I dunno. I just felt a need to write this. A letter to ... from an icy place This river doesn't flow into the Mississippi. The people here are barely friendly. I owe you an apology. The anger wells up within me, overflows and those downriver brave the flood or get washed away. Once, there was a lake here plugged by ice. When the dam broke it took all the dirt with it, scraped the scablands bare. Montana's loss became Oregon's gains. Washington still feels the pain. The Palouse turns green in between. Not everything is zero-sum, or black and white or even I'm wrong, You're right. I'd prefer win-win. But an apology may not be enough to cross this gulf. My angry sails catch sulfuric breezes. No one needs more acid in their life. I may have to wait until I figure this out by looking within. I'll give you a shout once I know. No, the folks who live along the lungs of America: the Arkansas, Missouri, Tennessee, Ohio, they know. All kindness flows with the mud and sand and silt (but not my anger, shame and guilt) into the bosom of Mississippi. KE [177.46] (22.april.2020) |
| On the Clark Fork of the Columbia River Back-clad kayakers wrapped in rainbow- colored kayaks sit in the curl of the wave, riding a flow that caresses the willows never again to pass this way. Fly-fisherman wade in cold-dark shallows, luring fish hidden behind big rocks; patient herons hunt for minnows; hungry ospreys dive for bass, careful to not be swept away. This river completes its mission today and every day. Nothing gets in its way. KE [177.45] (21.april.2020) 104.117 |
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). That said, use what the Muse gifts.