Flower Power🌷

𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓎 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹, 𝐼 𝓌𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇, 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀?

[urgetocreate]

John Michael Carter (American b,1950), Summer Reading, 1986, Oil on linen

[weltenwellen]

Mary Oliver, from “Green, Green is My Sister's House”, A Thousand Mornings

[weltenwellen]

Andrea Gibson, Lord of the Butterflies

[khachkars]

Waiting - Marya Hornbachar

[bluesrrgents]

little weirds - jenny slate

[mournfulroses]

Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in The Diary of Anaïs Nin Volume 1 1931-1934

[detailedart]

Rise and collapse of a wave. Details of paintings by Michael Zeno Diemer (1867-1939)

[ryebreadgf]

george clausen / edward potthast / nicholas hely hutchinson / victoria vitalyevna samsonova / jeremy miranda / suzanne siegel

[louisegluck]

May Sarton, from Journal of a Solitude [ID in alt text]

[the-year-before-time]

“The Visit at Moonlight” by Edmund Thomas Parris, 1832

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

…Let's drink to afternoon, the best of all times. Cruel morning is past, fearful, unpredictable, lonely night is yet to come. Here's to heartrending afternoon…

– Jean Rhys, from “Till September Petronella,” The Collected Short Stories (Norton, 1987)

[stlowens]

May Sarton, from Recovering: A Journal

[weltenwellen]

Mary Oliver, from "Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End?", Devotions

[lelif]

the miracle of being here

invitation, mary oliver// @arthoesunshine // when death comes, mary oliver//to be alive, gregory ott// the dead poets society(1989), quote: walden, henry david thoreau// joseph campbell// the aeneid, virgil// @babyangel-jpg // @rawjoy //sweet, charles bukowski// that it will never come again, emily dickinson// bjenny montero// ? // ? // moments, mary oliver// madness a bipolar life, marya hornbacher// wild geese, mary oliver// letters to a young poet, rainer maria rilke// on earth we're briefly gorgeous, ocean voung// @ashstfu // i thought on his desire for three days, linda gregg

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

Things, I know, stiffen and shift in memory, become what they never were before. As when an army takes over a country. Or a summer yard goes scarlet with fall and its venous leaves. One summons the years of the past largely by witchcraft—a whore's arts, collage and brew, eye of newt, heart of horse. Still, the house of my childhood is etched in my memory like the shape of the mind itself: a house-shaped mind—why not? It was this particular mind out of which I ventured—for any wild danger or sentimental stance or lunge at something faraway. But it housed every seedling act. I floated above it, but close, like a figure in a Chagall.

– Lorrie Moore, Who Will Run the Frog Hospital?

[honeyelids]

___a._rose__

[ipnilosmagos]

MOOD

[diaryofarose]

Photos by me

[tinyghosts]

“Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximising scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.”

– Katherine May, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times