The art of life
I don’t remember
a page to tell me how to
spend this afternoon . . .
surrounded by a
rich and fertile mystery –
may we not probe it?
Paddling without sound
toward clouds in the sunset sky,
as the twilight fades.
Above the Cliffs we
hear one or two distant owls
It is dry and warm.
September 7, 1854
Our first slight frost with
northwest wind and cool weather
arouses a breeze in us
September 7, 2022
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau"A book, each page written in its own season,out-of-doors, in its own locality."
~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2019
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