. outside there is moisture in the air and the light has become somehow monochrome, smells of a beginning....there are many birds calling to each other in the trees opposite my home....
. some days I will pick a poetry book from my shelves and share something that I find amongst the pages:
from imagist poetry (penguin books):
What is eternal of you
in both your eyes.
You were among the apple branches;
the sun shone, and it was November.
Sun and apples and laughter
we gathered, you and I.
And the birds were singing.
- F. S. Flint