|Illumination by Clive Hicks-Jenkins.|
Village scene for Thaliad (Phoenicia Publishing)
Everything feels semi-proverbial this morning--the snow, the glass of water, the tea, the memories of the day before...
The world went to all the trouble to summon up a warm wind for some hours yesterday and melt the snow heaps. Evidently that was in order to make a more lovely snowfall today.
Persistence, the grain of dust that may flower into crystal.
If someone of intelligence and curiosity arrives in a village, he will inevitably be described by some as a man of mystery and condemned for the same.
You can tell when people are at last starting to recover from a hard flu when the complaints increase.
If you attempt to help a madwoman, you will go to three destinations you did not expect, but in the end she will run into the dark.
For someone of the South, the nature of falling snow is always dream.
A thick, greenish glass inscribed with faint vegetative motifs makes the water more beautiful.
A poet is without honor in a tiny village. This is for the best.
Snowflakes are dust-hearted and return to dust.
Tea with lavender and milk.
Here is a secret I will not tell, folded like origami, so small that it can never be unfolded by human fingers.
In snow, the birds may call from all corners of the sky but remain invisible; this is mystery.