a small shrub.

I cry a lot. (18+)

[apoemaday]

Wild Pear Tree

by Kaveh Akbar

it’s been January for months in both directions      frost over grass like pale fungus like mothdust      the branches of the pear tree are pickling in ice white as the long white line running from me to the smooth whales frozen in chunks of ocean from their vast bobbing to the blackwhite stars flowering into heaven      the hungry cat gnaws on a sliver of mirror and I have been chewing out my stitches wondering which warm names we should try singing wild thyme cowslip blacksnake      all the days in a year line up at the door and I deflect each saying no you will not be needed one by one they skulk off into the cold      the cat hates this place more than he loves me he cannot remember the spring when I fed him warm duck fat daily nor the kitchen vase filled with musky blue roses nor the pear tree which was so eager to toss its fruit so sweet it made us sleepy      I stacked the pears on the mantle until I ran out of the room and began filling them into the bathtub      one evening I slid in as if into a mound of jewels      now ghost finches leave footprints on our snowy windowsills      the cat paces through the night listening for their chirps            our memories have frosted over      ages ago we guzzled all the rosewater in the vase still we check for it nightly      I have forgotten even the easy prayer I was supposed to use in emergencies      something something I was not born here I was not born here I was not

[miurgen]

I offer only vampire angst today I'm afraid 😗

#Art #Astarion #bg3

[apoemaday]

Gate A-4

by Naomi Shihab Nye

Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.”

Well — one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. “Help,” said the flight agent. “Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this.”

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly. “Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-se-wee?” The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the next day. I said, “No, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just later, who is picking you up? Let's call him.”

We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee, answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies — little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts — from her bag — and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo — we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend — by now we were holding hands — had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that gate — once the crying of confusion stopped — seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.

This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

[francisforever2014]

how do you just get up and deal with the fact that there’s a last time for everything. there was a last time you sat on your dads shoulders and there was a last time your mom tucked you into bed. there’s going to be a last time you kiss your sister on the head and there’s going to be a last time you hug your best friend. there’s going to be a last time you feel exactly as you feel right now and there’s going to be a last time that person says i love you. i need to lay down

[spice-ghouls]

Iain Thomas, The Light That Shines When Things End

[apoemaday]

Aubade

by Louise Glück

There was one summer that returned many times over there was one flower unfurling taking many forms

Crimson of the monarda, pale gold of the late roses

There was one love There was one love, there were many nights

Smell of the mock orange tree Corridors of jasmine and lilies Still the wind blew

There were many winters but I closed my eyes The cold air white with dissolved wings

There was one garden when the snow melted Azure and white; I couldn’t tell my solitude from love —

There was one love; he had many voices There was one dawn; sometimes we watched it together

I was here I was here

There was one summer returning over and over there was one dawn I grew old watching

[apoemaday]

Let Evening Come

by Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon shine through chinks in the barn, moving up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing as a woman takes up her needles and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned in long grass. Let the stars appear and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den. Let the wind die down. Let the shed go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop in the oats, to air in the lung let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t be afraid. God does not leave us comfortless, so let evening come.

[apoemaday]

A Note

by Wislawa Szymborksa tr. Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak

Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on sand, rise on wings;

to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur;

to tell pain from everything it’s not;

to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes;

An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off;

and if only once to stumble on a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another,

mislay your keys in the grass; and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;

and to keep on not knowing something important.

[apoemaday]

Hitch Hiker at a Truck Stop

by Mary Crow

The hitch hiker asks to look at the palms of my cold hands and thanks me for unfolding them on the frost-edged picnic table between us. While I look at his downcast eyes trying to see if he sees, nearby truckers stare at his narrow face, long blond hair. He asks me if I garden, rips a scrap of newspaper and folds it up into a tiny origami package for anise seed. Here, he says, seed I gathered in Oregon, plant it in Colorado. I always have a garden, he adds, I plant and leave to others. He tells me he has no sex; when you ride in the righthand seat, you have to nod your head without listening. Face pressed to the window, he can see the lacquered edges of the earth. So I imagine him practicing calligraphy on truck windows, recommending honey and vinegar in a glass of water every morning. Mad, mad, mad. A yellow warbler, the moon at the bottom of the stream. Out on the highway he is raising his thumb again.

[remordsposthume]

One of my favourite moments from Chapter 15 of "The Art of Love and War", by @fireflywritesgt <3

these two will be the death of me just you wait juST- im dskjhfdjhfsijdf

[comicalcarnival]

been missing ACNH lately... something about visiting friends who were far away was really fun.

[maxandor]

Stargazing Animal Crossing

[maureen2musings]

We can all use a little magic

larsvandegoor

[leafdiy]

[pocket-bugs]

Cozy corners 🌿📚

[animalcrossing-skye]

bullseye 🎯

[retrogamingblog2]

Watercolor Animal Crossing Postcards made by ShiyiStudio

[monstermonger]

Some time ago, I bought an art book on Caspar David Friedrich, whose emotional work stuck with me since I first saw them in a museum the first time years ago. Over the course of a few weeks, I read about his background and at the same time did studies/interpretations of many pieces. It was a really, really enjoyable and fulfilling project; here's a good lot of them together :)

I was happy to see a lot of people enjoy Friedrich's work+my interpretations while posting them individually. It took way too long, but I FINALLY set up a print shop for some of these + some other pieces for those who expressed interest. Thank you so much!