Yesterday, the golden crescent of an old moon
woke me, bright above the horizon
an hour before the sun,
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From the category archives:
Weekly Image
All I want to do when I finish a picture is to fly away. I like life. I am bored by the intellectuals, or these people who call themselves intellectuals. They try to give an exact name to everything. ‘A good woman.’ A bad woman.’ And they are not real intellectuals. In the original meaning of the word, an intellectual was someone who had intellect.
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Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last—far off—at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.
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Before Starbuck’s or Cinnabon existed, there was Old West Cinnamon Rolls in Pismo Beach, California.
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How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
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The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.
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A bright evergreen plant with vivid red berries, Pyracantha ~ also known as Firethorn after its color and thorny structure ~ ushers in the holiday season here in the northern latitudes.
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