We can never be with loss too long. Behind the warped door that sticks, the wood thrush calls to the monks, pausing atop the stone crucifix, singing: “I am marvelous alone!” Thrash, thrash goes the hayfield: rows of marrow and bone undone. The horizon’s flashing fastens tight, sealing the blue hills with vermillion. Moss dyes a squirrel’s skull green. The cemetery expands its borders — little milky crosses grow like teeth. How kind time is, altering space so nothing stays wrong: and light, more new light, always arrives. (At Thomas Merton’s Grave by Spencer Reece) #goth #cottagecore #whimsi...
We can never be with loss too long.
Behind the warped door that sticks,
the wood thrush calls to the monks,
pausing atop the stone crucifix,
singing: “I am marvelous alone!”
Thrash, thrash goes the hayfield:
rows of marrow and bone undone.
The horizon’s flashing fastens tight,
sealing the blue hills with vermillion.
Moss dyes a squirrel’s skull green.
The cemetery expands its borders —
little milky crosses grow like teeth.
How kind time is, altering space
so nothing stays wrong: and light,
more new light, always arrives.
(At Thomas Merton’s Grave by Spencer Reece) #goth #cottagecore #whimsi...