“Language is the house with lamplight in its windows, visible across fields.
Approaching, you can hear music; closer, smell
soup, bay leaves, bread – a meal for anyone
who has only his tongue left.
It’s a country; home; family:
abandoned; burned down; whole lines dead, unmarried.
For those who can’t read their way in the streets,
or in the gestures and faces of strangers,
language is the house to run to;
in wild nights, chased by dogs and other sounds,
when you’ve been lost a long time,
when you have no other place.” (Anne Michaels from: “What the Light Teaches“ 128–9)
Now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now...
Sunlight on my Roses...
An abandoned Bluebird nest...
Moonflowers, always...
