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Autumn.

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All night I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling with a luminous doom. By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times into something better. - Mary Oliver, “Sleeping in the Forest”

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“[…]flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever”

- Mary Oliver, “Peonies”

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Ebb and flow.

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Sunlight on the river.

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There’s something dense, united, sitting in the background, repeating its number, its identical signal. How clear it is that stones have handled time, in their fine substance there’s the smell of age, and water the sea brings, salty and sleepy. - Pablo Neruda, “Oneness”

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It falls cold into my body, waking the bones. I hear them deep inside me, whispering oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened? - Mary Oliver, “At Blackwater Pond”

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in the rain- darkness,     the sunset being sheathed i sit and think of you

- e. e. cummings, “In the Rain”

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I can’t remember where this happened but I think it was late summer when everything is full of fire and rounding to fruition and whatever doesn’t, or resists, must lie like a field of dark water under the pulling moon, tossing and tossing. - Mary Oliver, “Music”

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“Come to the woods, for here is rest.  There is no repose like that of the green deep woods.“ - John Muir

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“I burn, I shiver; out of the sun, into this shadow.” - Virginia Woolf, The Waves

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Oh, now look to the east Great mountains remember me Oh, I wound around you for miles I sat down right there and stretched my bones And oh, if you knew what it meant to me Oh, if you knew what it meant to me Oh, if you knew what it meant to me You would see, too - Dark Dark Dark, “Daydreaming”

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Distortions.

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Autumn sun-shower.

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“I flutter. I ripple. I stream like a plant in the river, flowing this way, flowing that way, but rooted[…]“ - Virginia Woolf. The Waves

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“[…]and the embers paled and deepened and paled and deepened like the bloodbeat of some living thing eviscerate upon the ground before them and they watched the fire which does contain within it something of men themselves inasmuch as they are less without it and are divided from their origins and are exiles. For each fire is all fires, and the first fire and the last ever to be.“

- Cormac McCarthy

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Abstraction.