The branchful of dried leaves blown about at the center of the road, turning on itself is it a path: snake: gray-brown updrafting: drama: whole affair played out between wind's quiver, wind's dusty haste, an almost impeccable procedure, bit of scenery from which all fear is deleted. So it is right here, where I am peering, where I am supposed to discern, how the new gods walk behind the old gods at the suitable distance.
-Jorie Graham
~jadesnow~ · Thu Sep 18, 2008 @ 10:14pm · 0 Comments |