This Is My Park.

Precita Park, SF

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You'll remember me when the west wind moves Upon the fields of barley You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky As we walk in fields of gold

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"Birds flyin high, you know how I feel. Sun in the sky, you know how I feel. Breeze driftin by, you know how I feel..."

—Nina Simone, Feeling Good

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It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day; These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem: When the men with the ‘Whoops’ and the ‘Whoas’ have carted the whole of the whispering loveliness away Half the Spring, for me, will have gone with them.

It is going now, and my heart has been struck with the hearts of the planes; Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains,                 In the March wind, the May breeze, In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.              There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;              They must have heard the sparrows flying,    And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying—              But I, all day, I heard an angel crying:              ‘Hurt not the trees.’ —Charlotte Mew, "The Trees Are Down"

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Often I am permitted to return to a meadow    as if it were a given property of the mind    that certain bounds hold against chaos,

that is a place of first permission,    everlasting omen of what is.

—Robert Duncan

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Busy old fool, unruly sun,  Why dost thou thus,  Through windows, and through curtains call on us?  Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?  Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide  Late school boys and sour prentices,  Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,  Call country ants to harvest offices,  Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,  Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. —John Donne, "The Sun Rising"

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Wisdom's a gift, but you'd trade it for youth / Age is an honor - it's still not the truth / We saw the stars when they hid from the world / You cursed the sun when it stepped to your girl / Maybe she's gone and I can't resurrect her / The truth is she doesn't need me to protect her / We know the true death, the true way of all flesh / Everyone's dying, but girl - you're not old yet —Vampire Weekend, Step

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When I go up through the mowing field, 
The headless aftermath,
 Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
 Half closes the garden path.


And when I come to the garden ground,
 The whir of sober birds 
Up from the tangle of withered weeds 
Is sadder than any words

 A tree beside the wall stands bare,
 But a leaf that lingered brown,
 Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
 Comes softly rattling down.

 I end not far from my going forth 
By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower 
To carry again to you. 

—Robert Frost, A Late Walk

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"Nature" is what we see— The Hill—the Afternoon— Squirrel—Eclipse— the Bumble bee— Nay—Nature is Heaven— Nature is what we hear— The Bobolink—the Sea— Thunder—the Cricket— Nay—Nature is Harmony— Nature is what we know— Yet have no art to say— So impotent Our Wisdom is To her Simplicity.  —Emily Dickinson

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I can't stand the rain Against my window Bringing back sweet memories I can't stand the rain Against my window Because here`s not here with me —Tina Turner

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Cinema paradiso.

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July 4th.

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I think of you now, how magnificent it would be To find ultimate and much needed serenity Wrapped up in your strong arms in loves sweet embrace To be held by you under the painted pink sky —Lillian Jamison

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Some people say there's a golden light  You're the golden light  And if I chase after you  Doesn't mean that it's true —Twin Shadow

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I sit high in this tree / 
In complete tranquility / 

This bed of ropes / 
I tied with hopes
 / That I could find / 
A state of mind / 
In this tree
 / Of tranquility / 

My frustrated soul 
/ Searching for its goal
 / Climbing the ropes oh life / 
Past the knots of strife / 
In this tree
 / Of tranquility / 

I sit here now
 / Sweat on my brow / 
Looking into the sky
 / This is how I fly / 
In this tree 
/ Of tranquility —Jake Gassiot

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I stood beneath an orange sky.

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We need some pines to assuage the darkness when it blankets the mind, we need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly as a plane's wing, and a worn bed of needles to pad the rumble that fills the mind, and a blur or two of a wild thing that sees and is not seen. We need these things between appointments, after work, and, if we keep them, then someone someday, lying down after a walk and supper, with the fire hole wet down, the whole night sky set at a particular time, without numbers or hours, will cause a little sound of thanks—a zipper or a snap— to close round the moment and the thought of whatever good we did. —Marvin Bell