Saturday, April 5, 2008

The Joy of Writing

Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?/
For a drink of water from a spring/whose surface will xerox her
soft muzzle?/Why does she lift her head:does she hear something?/
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth/ she pricks up
her ears beneath my fingertips./ Silence-- this word also rustles
across the page/ and parts the boughs/ that have sprouted from
the word "woods".

By Wislawa Zymborska

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I love....

  • Dew on the bamboo, yellow flowers and orange sunsets, the sound of rain...the whistle of the wind, the rush of flowing water, the smell of woodsmoke, the crackle of a wood fire,the moon in all its phases.......

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