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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 |
| 2019年5月3日: ancestral blog Somehow we survived the plague, the wars between the Svea and the Goths, the years of eating fish and hazelnuts and not much else. These pines. This water. We left. Some of us traveled to a place of maple and chestnut. Made furniture, built houses, planted crops we could never grow before. Planted ourselves. We found each other. We already had children. We made more. From one of these—you are descended. When you go back the water will seem cold. The pines will not welcome you. You'll be a stranger. This is not your home. But every time they see your face they will know you are one of us. They will speak our language, puzzled that you do not understand: Once there was fish and water. Once there was pine and hazelnuts. Now even our graves have been recycled. There is nothing else. ACCOMPLISHMENTS: 1. I opened my window. If it stays above freezing I can leave it open. Uncomfortable to breathe when it's closed for too long. 2. Saw friends and chatted with others. 3. Put April 2nd entry to my journal on-line so I can edit. 4. Wrote a poem. 5. Read more Acorna 7... the part I'm reading is unsettling... triggering traumas for some reason. IMAGES: Cool air, sunshine and raindrops, cold draft from the open window, sausage lasagna, NEW BLOGVILLE: Reading does remind me of Old Blogville. A community forms when we share ourselves. Like freshman year in college, each person from a different place making new friends... in college because we have to. Here? Because we mostly choose to. Arsenic Springs In a wasteland we are wary of water. If green and stagnant we are careful. If flowing we note the flowers around it. If nothing is growing we avoid it. Maybe I dreamt too hard. Maybe I hoped for too much. Your eyes gleamed muddied blue, mine clear crystal; but, with nothing behind them, you knew best to avoid them. © Kåre Enga [176.71] (2.maio.2019) |
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