This has been a winter of books, and the kind of simple earthly pleasures that are priceless and free — a winter of clouds and ice and sun, of forest paths and waterfalls, of vanilla pages and chamomile grass and moss — a winter of Blake, Thoreau, and Don Quixote, of diaries and letters, and of all that lasts beyond its past and lights the present tense. And it’s not over, although I might be in the very next breath, and that breath might be spring.
plum blossoms . . . the old man
into a soft pink cloud
Recently Banned Literature, March 10, 2018