#suncaught

[albireo-mkg]

Вот в субботу вы занимались поиском сериальчиков. Нашли? А что нашли? Я вот нашла как в Испании ищут пропавших... Ну тут главное потеряться рядом с дорогой, очень советую) Не рядом с дорогой вас искать не будут))))) Есть совет еще лучше - не теряйтесь в Испании, если уж очень хочется затеряться, то лучше где-то рядом с Москвой, там точно есть поисковая группа с логикой поиска) Ну, так и что там у вас с сериальчиками?) #AlbireoMKG #апрель #приветвесна #april #пойманноесолнце #солнечныйзайчик #рассвет #suncaught #sun #sunbeam #красотаприроды #красотавесны #чтосмотреть #чтотысмотришь #сериал #whatwatch (at Кабакум) https://www.instagram.com/p/CrXtKd9o2PO/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[contemporary-devotion]

Suncaught

Listen.

The wind shuffles

Through a hundred

Redwood trees.

A cacophony of

Yells, laughs, whispers,

Tender words and songbird chatter,

Conversation.

A couple of ravens cackle all day. We

Watch.

The jackrabbit steps

Gingerly out of the brush

And into the meadow.

Beautiful faces illuminated

By the first and last light of day.

Skin glowing dimly, softly.

From dawn to dust to dusk,

Entwined. We

Hesitate.

A flurry of California quail dive

Back into the bramble,

A fluttery beating of wings.

I worm my way into

Every crook of your body.

It doesn't mean anything.

I'm not thinking about it.

I'm only thinking about it.

Are we . . . ? We

Kiss.

Split, sticky, overripe cherry plums fall

From the fruiting trees

Of an old orchard.

We kiss.

The gorgeous madrone twists

And spreads in the sun,

Dappling the ground beneath.

The bay laurel

And the maple

Catch the light and

Glow.

I'm staring into the sun through

Ponderosa needles.

Darling, you're so pretty,

It hurts.

As my poetry begins

To disintegrate I ask

Why am I writing?

What was the goal?

I hide behind imagery and

Metaphor,

Lost in the redwood sorrel's

Carpet of hearts . . .

Where was I going?

I've burned her

Into my memory.

Her face engraved

Behind my eyelids,

I see her bite her lip.

I see her smile,

I see her nose.

I see her hair pulled back, messy.

I feel the ghost of her hands

And hear her laugh.

What is the point?

The point was to paint a picture.

To memorize a moment.

Well the sun has shifted,

And the shadows have moved.

The moment has passed,

And there will always be

More moments.

The morning light will kiss the skin,

The cold will tenderly bite the face.

Our skin of dirt and roots of ash,

Our consequences,

The wood smoke in my clothes,

Will follow me.

So what is the point?

As my poetry disintegrates,

As my poetry develops and devolves,

It—

It felt important

To share.

And now I don't know where to go.

Maybe nobody does.

As we gather around the campfire,

'Neath the redwoods at sunset,

And as my poetry dies,

I think I'm not ready

To share the words

Burning a hole in my heart,

Or to finish writing

This story I was weaving.

So I'll forget the future

And the past

And settle into the present.

As the sun paints the sky

And bathes us in its gold,

As the bugle calls taps,

And the wood turns to charcoal,

As the suncatcher scatters

Dances of light,

Here,

For this moment,

Things are alright.

[academyoftheheartandmind]

“Quiet as the Spider"

“Quiet as the Spider”

By Thomas Page “But her life was as cold as an attic facing north; and boredom, like a silent spider, was weaving its web in the shadows, in every corner of her heart.” —Gustave Flaubert Madame Bovary

Routine is weaved like gossamer outside

My kitchen window—its strength, its splendor

Shining in the suncaught raindrops after

A summer’s rain which, in washing cycles,

Dresses the spider’s web in…

[hanriswonder]

#streetinspiration #suncaught (at 恒隆广场 | Plaza 66)