submit 2 the current

The flowers of late winter and early spring occupy places in our hearts well out of proportion to their size. ~Gertrude S. Wister High-res

The flowers of late winter and early spring occupy places in our hearts well out of proportion to their size.

~Gertrude S. Wister

In the fury of the moment I can see the master’s hand In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand. ~Bob Dylan, Every Grain of Sand High-res

In the fury of the moment I can see the master’s hand
In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand.

~Bob Dylan, Every Grain of Sand

There is more hunger for love and appreciation in this world than for bread. ~Mother Theresa High-res

There is more hunger for love and appreciation in this world than for bread.

~Mother Theresa

Reborn You want to be reborn, you want that a new and better you should emerge from the frozen hulk winter has made you, you want to be free again? Then you have to let go of the old you. You must be willing to walk into the midst of the sea on dry ground and risk it all. ~Lawrence Kushner High-res
Reborn

You want to be reborn, you want that a new and better you should emerge from the frozen hulk winter has made you, you want to be free again? Then you have to let go of the old you. You must be willing to walk into the midst of the sea on dry ground and risk it all.

~Lawrence Kushner

A Late Walk When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of withered weeds Is sadder than any words A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rattling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you. ~Robert Frost High-res

A Late Walk

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.

~Robert Frost