heather

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I.

We sit beside the headstone thus,

And wish that name were carved for us.

The moss reprints more tenderly

The hard types of the mason's knife,

As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life

With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.

We dealt with books, we trusted men,

And in our own blood drenched the pen,

As if such colors could not fly.

We walked too straight for fortune's end,

We loved too true to keep a friend;

At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I

We seem of no use in the world;

Our fancies hang gray and uncurled

About men's eyes indifferently;

Our voice which thrilled you so, will let

You sleep; our tears are only wet:

What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

It was not thus in that old time

When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime

To watch the sunset from the sky.

"Dear love, you're looking tired," he said:

I, smiling at him, shook my head.

'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

Though now none takes me on his arm

To fold me close and kiss me warm

Till each quick breath end in a sigh

Of happy languor. Now, alone,

We lean upon this graveyard stone,

Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I.

Suppose the world brought diadems

To tempt us, crusted with loose gems

Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.

We scarcely care to look at even

A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,

We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I?

In this abundant earth no doubt

Is little room for things worn out:

Disdain them, break them, throw them by!

And if before the days grew rough

We once were loved, used, - well enough,

I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

flight

jump

"I don’t want to earn my living; I want to live."
Oscar Wilde

lilacs

view from the second floor hall window. early am. birds are all i hear.

proud flesh

Proud Flesh.  a nude study of her husband, Larry Mann, with whom she has spent the last forty years. Sally Mann, with her true talent. as literate as she is visual, her essay about this work is a testament to the power of deep trust honed over time. moved by this paragraph:

And so it was with fire and ice, the studio woodstove too far away from the light to do him any good on a cold winter afternoon, that Larry and I began this work of exploring what it means to grow older, to let the sunshine fall voluptuously on a still-beautiful form, and to spend quiet afternoons together again. No phone, no kids, two fingers of bourbon, the smell of the ether, the two of us—still in love, still at work.

coming

When lilacs last in the door-year bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd--and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

- Walt Whitman,
When Lilacs Last in the Door-Yard Bloom'd
(I, Leaves of Grass)
 
you can almost hear them start blooming.  smiling because we made it through the winter.

dainties and summer thoughts

soup

leek and potato soup
4 leeks (white parts) minced
1 small onion minced
2 tbsp. butter
1 qt. water
2 tsp. salt
4 potatoes minced
2 cups hot milk

cook leeks & onion slowly with 1 tbsp. of butter in a saucepan until they are soft. do not brown.  add water, salt & potatoes.  continue cooking slowly for about 40 min. add milk & tbsp. butter.  serve with a piece of french bread, which has been dried in the oven,  floating on top.

black bass hotel, 1950
bucks cooks, an artists county 1950

there is a great story that goes to this soup...full of warmth and fun and apples.

lists

me

a girl
in green gauze
simple domesticity
wood fired
seasonal
outdoors as important as in
heirloom pumpkins and tomatoes
blips of great grandmothers
dreams of long tables of antique silver and ironstone
outdoor concerts
full moons
daisys
sacks instead of purses
seed saver and plant exchanges
linen blankets
beeswax
painted floors
blue hydrangeas
turquoise
spoon and fork christmas trees
rustic stone fruit desserts
spun sugar nests
mudcakes and altered art
work boots and skirts
farmers markets
freckles and silver necklaces
too much sugar and cream in black tea
night walks
lanterns
lavender, fig and rose ice cream
                                     gonna build it right back
                                     to a castle not a shack
                                     with the sun across my back
                                     how sweet, how sweet life could be

thankful

    princess nightgown and black wellie boots.. with levon the stag sheep.

tracks

the sun came today, brought the warmth and i tried to harvest the gift. i have to do things around the house that i will have to do again countless times, but i dont mind. i have an established burn pile in the back, ready to be lit. soon. trying to find my purpose. mother. friend. companion. career? cook, harvester, manufacturer. dreamer.  its just too hard to put it into words. i feel like i haven't been given permission until recently to figure any of this out.

necessity is the mother of invention.

i hope to see an old big table, in the top floor in my barn, (which currently has hardly any steps up to it and houses wendy bird, resident vulture.) a giant wall with fabric scraps, old pages from books, a simple photo of my daughter's sad brown eyes and a giant rug with turqoise in it. pillows made of mattress ticking. nubby warm blankets for the occasional nap. the scent of damask rose.  lanterns.  my new bee tile. wall of jars, with herbs that remind me of childhood and warm summer nights. a line of chairs in various
stages of disrepair. for friends. my sewing machine, and a brown floral to make a festoon curtain for the window that overlooks the field. when i am brave enough to climb the steps, (you have to walk on the very ouside of them and hold on to the walls), i watch the wind blow the tops of the corn. in the winter, you can see all the way to the hill above the covered bridge. the college lights up the horizon. gold. but the barn is in pieces.

tracks before the train.

locarno

the most beautiful place i have ever been.  if i even think about it i am almost breathless, the night i sat on a balcony in the youth hostel.  the air was so clear and warm and glowing.  at the time,  there was a festival in the center of town, there was dancing. i danced with dozens of people i never met nor spoke the same language with.  the music stayed in my ears till morning.  the alps hugged this sweet little city.  when i looked up, i saw only stars, millions of glimmer bits that winked at me, telling me that they had their own secrets and stories and they knew all of  mine-  they had been watching me.

renewal

It was one of those March days when the sun shines

hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the

 light, and winter in the shade. ~Charles Dickens

checks and short gowns

The Henry Walton 1776 painting "Plucking the Turkey"

companion

tom

back country

sustenance

To make a very good Barley-Gruel.

Of three Ounces of Pearl-barley make a Quart of Barley-water; shift it once or twice, if it is not white; put to it four Ounces of Currants clean pick’d and wash’d; when they are plumpt, pour the Gruel out to cool a little, and beat up the Yolks of three Eggs and put into it, with half a Pint of White-wine, and half a Pint of new thick Cream, the Peel of a Lemon, and as much Sugar as you like; stir it gently over the Fire ‘till ‘tis as thick as Cream. ‘Tis a pretty wholesome Spoon-meat for Suppers.

A Collection of Above Three Hundred Receipts in Cookery, Physick and Surgery
 Mary Kettilby (1724)

mourning

this morning i lost my dove, emmylou.  she helped bring life back into my home.

love