That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country… Continue reading Ray Bradbury
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright tendrils and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge. —William Carlos Williams, “Epitaph,” The Collected Poems, Vol. 1: 1909-1939. (New Directions; Reprint edition September 17, 1991) Originally published 1951.