Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine

What misery to be afraid of death. What wretchedness, to believe only in what can be proven.

The sweetness of dogs (fifteen) What do you say, Percy? I am thinking of sitting out on the sand to watch the moon rise. Full tonight. So we go and the moon rises, so beautiful it makes me shudder, makes me think about time and space, makes me take measure of myself: one iota pondering heaven. Thus we sit, I thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s perfect beauty and also, oh! How rich it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile, leans against me and gazes up into my face. As though I were his perfect moon.

Isn’t it wonderful the way the world holds both the deeply serious, and the unexpectedly mirthful?

Always there is something worth saying about glory, about gratitude.

And I do not want anymore to be useful, to be docile, to lead / children out of the fields into the text / of civility, to teach them that they are (they are not) better than the grass.

it is a serious thing // just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.