There’s something to walking with autumnal thoughts through the evening fog. One likes to compose poems at a time like that. ― Hermann Hesse, Demian. Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend, (Suhrkamp Verlag, May 3, 1996) Originally published 1919.
The sky shakes out a scribble of starlings, then erases them from its lavender slate. Why are they more real once I want to tell you of them? — Lynn Powell, from “Indian Summer,” Field (no. 78, Spring 2008)
We all grow tired eventually; it happens to everyone. Even the sun, at the close of the year, is no longer a morning person. ― Joyce Rachelle
I don’t want eventual, I want soon. It’s 5 a.m. It’s noon. It’s dusk falling to dark. I listen to music. I eat up a few wild poems while time creeps along as though it’s got all day. This is what I have. The dull hangover of waiting, the blush of my heart on the… Continue reading Mary Oliver