~ a reflection ~

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶ་࿐ with their honeyed heaviness,

their lush trembling,

their eagerness

to be wild and perfect for a moment,

before they are

nothing, forever ?

Mary Oliver ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

these feelings from the past, sometimes come back to me

together with the then noise of the rain

the then smell of the wind

Haruki Murakami

... sometimes the candle dreams of a strong wind ...

You are the poor one, you the destitute.

You are the stone that has no resting place.

You are the diseased one whom we fear to touch.

Only the wind is yours.

You are poor like the spring rain that gently caresses the city;

like wishes muttered in a prison cell, without a world to hold them;

and like the invalid, turning in his bed to ease the pain.

Like flowers along the track, shuddering as the train roars by, and like the hand

that covers our face when we cry - that poor.

Yours is the suffering of birds on freezing nights,

of dogs who go hungry for days.

Yours the long sad waiting of animals who are locked up and forgotten.

You are the beggar who averts his face,

the homeless person who has given up asking;

you howl in the storm.

Are we not better and at home In dreamful Autumn, we who deem No harvest joy is worth a dream? A little while and night shall come, A little while, then, let us dream.

~ the language of flowers and silent things ~

~ there are three sorts of people:

those who are alive, those who are dead,

and those who are at sea ~

Aristotle

~ sea, I am like you...

full of broken voices ~

~ I’ve been abandoned out here,

under the dry stars ~

Anne Sexton, from *The Fury of Abandonment*