#plumly

[years-of-indiscretion]

Off A Side Road Near Staunton Some nothing afternoon, no one anywhere, an early autumn stillness in the air, the kind of empty day you fill by taking in the full size of the valley and its layers leading slowly to the Blue Ridge, the quality of country, if you stand here long enough, you could stay for, step into, the way a landscape, even on a wall, pulls you in, one field at a time, pasture and fall meadow, high above the harvest, perfect to the tree line, the spirit clouds and intermittent sunlit smoky rain riding the tops of the mountains, though you could walk until it’s dark and not reach those rains - you could walk the rest of the day into the picture and not know why, at any given moment, you’re there. Stanley Plumly

[ozhouseadventure]

[ai-senpai]

So, my dad won't stop calling Primrose from the Hunger Games, "Plumly." I don't know why it's so funny.

[lettersnoteswordsmusic]

Autumnal

Not long before she died my mother told me that her one regret was never to have traveled and that since she had just read about it or somewhere that reminded her from sometime Venice was the place she would have gone to and might still in her haunting of the afterlife. She had already questioned God in heaven and the heavy Bible verses she was taught and now saw death as her last chance to live, her last chance to spend the green-gold leaf pressed into books each October on her birthday. She wept, she understood the innocence of dying. And here she was propped up against her pillow the way she finally would be in her coffin with her eyeglasses held between the light and open page. She wanted me to hear the article that said that Venice would be filled like all Italy that season and that Venice in particular was vulnerable and small, weighted with the souls of travelers, and that in the Grand Canal rivers of dark waters moved.—Would there be space?—It said, salotto citta, that Venice was a city the size of drawing rooms, lit with the flowers of funerals and weddings.

By Stanley Plumly