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Pastimes : Favorite Quotes -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: HG who wrote (9942)	12/14/2002 6:05:07 PM
From: Volsi Mimir	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 13018

Snake ~WS Merwin When it seemed to me that whatever was holding me there pretending to let me go but then bringing me back each time as though I had never been gone and knowing me knowing me unseen among those rocks when it seemed to me that whatever that might be had not changed for all my absence and still was not changing once in the middle of the day late in that time I stood up from the writings unfinished on the table in the echoless stone room looking over the valley I opened the door and on the stone doorsill where every so often through the years I had come upon a snake lying out in the sunlight I found the empty skin like smoke on the stone with the day still moving in it and when I touched it and lifted all of it the whole thing seemed lighter than a single breath and then I was gone and that time had changed and when I came again many years had passed and I saw one day along the doorsill outside that same room a green snake lying in the sunlight watching me even from the eyes the skin loosens leaving the colors that have passed through it and the colors shine after it has gone =============================================== -----missed you too, time flies don't it

To: HG who wrote (9942)	12/14/2002 6:28:15 PM
From: Volsi Mimir	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 13018

Nocturne ~Marge Piercy A vase of peonies in a dark room: I bury my face in their fragrance. They are as cool as the underside of a waterlily pad that stares through jade smooth depths; as cool as the touch of a marble ledge; as the languid fringed ferns the droop feathery tassels in the basement of the forest; as chill as the hand the wandering moon lays on my arm at night. They are as white in the hot thick blackness of the room as mild spilled in the shade; as white as the mute swans bowing over their reflections while I watch from a cobblestone bridge where the wind runs through my hair. But in the center of each white fountain stand a few crimson ears of petals as if someone had laid a hand there and bled a few bright drops, as if someone had tried, for an instant to cool the fever of pain in the whiteness of the peony stumbling to its moon through a dark room.