Fan Ogilvie
If you can’t be happy here, you probably can’t find happiness anywhere.
Living the winter life I had wished for in the beginning.
There is a phrase Hart Crane, the difficult but magnificent American poet, uses to interpret the relationship between the ocean and the sky, in a most penetrating manner: “Infinite consanguinity.”
The bird is a tufted titmouse. That bird there, which I am observing, is a tufted titmouse. Time to call Vern Laux, the bird man.
It was not until I cleared the underbrush
I saw unfurling monk-like bodies of ferns
It was not until I walked the lonely pond
forsythia fronds and red bud bloomed in the water
Because I could not stop for death —
He kindly stopped for me —
from Emily Dickinson #712