And I remember how you told me all you wanted to do That dream of Paris in the morning or a New York window view I can see it now you’re married and your wife is with a child And you’re all laughing in the garden and I’m lost somewhere in your mind
“Last night I dreamed. Of melting ice and dying polar bears.
Bare feet in the snow, frost bitten.
And the air was filled with the cries of the seals with no place to land.
I wondered about the selkies. Will they have to shed their skins?
Forever doomed to roam the earth, forever longing for the sea.
Will their bones collapse under the weight of the wanting?
The frozen ice crackled, and I woke up with a vision of blood on the snow
and the taste of loss in my mouth.”—End of March
“My older sister has entire kingdoms inside of her, and some of them are only accessible at certain seasons, in certain kinds of weather. One such melting occurs in summer rain, at midnight, during the vine-green breathing time right before sleep. You have to ask the right question, throw the right rope bridge, to get there—and then bolt across the chasm between you, before the bridge collapses.”—St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves (Ava Wrestles the Alligator) by Karen Russell (via pinpricks)
I want to get swallowed by the Earth, digging my toes slowly in the the wet dirt, slowly pushing it under my nails, into my skin. I want to relish the smell of it, the smell of the leaves and of the trees, of insects buzzing, of sprouts growing. I want green to fill my eyes and the sky to answer my call. I want a little garden to make my own, with flowers and fairies and mushrooms and herbs. I want it to be drenched in sunshine and see it grow grow grow. I want no more of this concrete, this steel. Just a little place to sleep, to create, to grow up. Filled with stories and the quiet length of the days. Filled with tales and secrets and whispers and peace. I want a place where I can feel the Earth breathing. Slowly.
“There is always more than you know.
There are always boxes
put away in the cellar,
worn shoes and cherished pictures,
notes you find later,
sheet music you can’t play.”—Margaret Atwood (via twoshadesofhope) (via bunnymitford)
“When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one’s ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.” -Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows