There where language ends is not where the unsayable begins, but rather the matter of language. He who has never reached, as in a dream, that woodlike substance of language that the ancients called silva, remains, even when he is silent, a prisoner to representations.—Georgio Agamben
Spring again:
the meadow longs to repeat itself
Grass sprouts ligamental in the swale
Seedthreads
tendril frantically toward heat
