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Natureexpand_moreChuck had a grin, but Mike kept his eyebrows raised, very curious.
A poetry of texture and light runs through these photographs.
How can we go on believing each day won’t be the one that flames out?
I see the garden far away in itself reflected in the polished spade.
A question from one of your favorite songs what would you do
A field. No clouds. Tall grasses bend toward the foreground.
“Pick your switch,” says my father and I’m stepping out into the forest.
The fish’s eye is mangled, tugged inward; blood leaks from its gills.
Before we too vanish, we hike to where three trails converge.
Lucy Liu, you show me I can come to fruition and yellow on my own terms.
I wanted just to like chemistry, because my teacher hailed from Georgia.
Loving you is every bit as fine as coming over a hill into the sun.
It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.
Photo portraits, landscapes, and world scenes by Sandra Lloyd.
I see now that motherhood is not required to speak a mother tongue.
I’m tired of the song the rain sings in June, the chorus of hope.
The windshield’s dirty, the squirter stuff’s all gone, so we drive on.
I lean I stumble toward you hoping you’ve not turned away yet.
Show me your darkness, your nothing-to-see and everything to touch.
Forgive me, please, for continuing to believe that roses are beautiful.
Oar blades, vast swirls of cirrus at dawn. The dead move within us.
To me, the very point of cooking is to wildly praise what’s wild.
Something basks and gathers in the dark parts of an open ear.
Of what use, other than to the butterfly, are a butterfly’s wings?
Before giant pandas earn heir name, they cub pinkly and mewling.
We’ve seen a lot of smaller ranches bought up by outside money.
A heart takes precautions, withholds warmth, but it’s mistaken.
I wound through the Gothic castle buildings in the university.
Better to be a bird without altitude. Or to get out of the game early.
I eat what’s in front of me, as all great men do. Some wouldn’t, but I do.
