Wednesday, October 25
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Epithalamion
The elm weaves the field's late light, this hill
hanging from the tree's roots like the moon
From its shadow and the whole
world beneath suspended.

Roots knead the earth's thick sorrow.
Still, leaves from this.
From this unshackling, birdsong.

I am a blade of corn where you kneel,
wind and quaking stalk.
The elm's body a vase of poured sky.

The tree will die.
Someday, the tree will die.

For now, this axis -
what we choose to compass by.
 - Hannah Fries
memory's landscape









  • ". . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate,
    a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts."
    - Vladimir Nabokov