trillium

[helen-frankenthaler]

Square One, 1985, Helen Frankenthaler

Medium: acrylic,canvas

[smilingatthisdivinechaos-blog]

[litverve]

Eric Muhr

[litverve]

We belong where love finds us.

Anne Michaels, Infinite Gradation (via litverve)

[owls-n-elderberries]

november flowering by amy buxton on Flickr.

[mgloriahunter]

Mindful 007, acrylic and watercolor on paper

[an-haze-reblogs]

last resort by ~deadendsoul

[earllundquist]

The rest is silence

[litverve]

To treat every day as a word spoken to us. And yourself – as an answer to the word.

Anna Kamieńska, from “The Notebook: 1965-1972″, in Astonishments, trans. Grażyna Drabik and David Curzon (via litverve)

[elisebrown]

[blacklaceandredlipstick-deactiv]

Rebecca Lawrence Photography

[s0irenic]

Set On Pilgrimage  -  Anne Moore

[kafkasapartment]

A STREET, 1926.Georgia O'Keeffe. Oil on canvas

[sukhavabodhe]

Untitled

It occurs to me that, when I die, they might find the necklace I dropped behind the bed and wonder how long it was there, and whether I’d missed it. But will they care about my favorite color, my long-range plans, or my habit of searching myself for signs of rust? ~  Dorothea Grossman

[shrbr]

[sukhavabodhe]

We’re suspended for a moment on this spinning blue pearl, here together and alive right now, conscious, though no one knows why. It is a question of caring. When one of us considers the experiences of another, all the failings and the achievements in someone else’s life, we are seeing from this common place, knowing that it’s all taking place in doubt and the absolute solitude and terror of being human, and knowing that it’s all temporary. All those who are unsure of themselves and suspect themselves of the worst falseness and wrong, bad things are to be not only pitied but loved, identified with and known. — Maria Bustillos, Inside David Foster Wallace’s Private Self-Help Library

[litverve]

And life is, I am sure, made of poetry. Poetry is not alien—poetry is, as we shall see, lurking round the corner. It may spring on us at any moment.

Jorge Luis Borges, This Craft of Verse (via litverve)

[belaquadros]

[sukhavabodhe]

                                                                          belaquadros:  Brad Kunkle

If we have not stopped wanting in the long dark, we will grasp our desires soon by the nape. Inside the fallen brown apple the seed is alive. Freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw, the sap leaps in the maple under the bark and although they have pronounced us dead, we rise again invisibly, we rise and the sun sings in us sweet and smoky as the blood of the maple that will open its leaves like thousands of waving hands.

~  Marge Piercy, from “The Inside Chance”

[traumaturity]

Wrapped in silence, the scent of white blossom is carried from the earth, the season slowly taking back what was given.

~   Anne Fraser, from “I.” (via mitochondria)