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Land of Talk- Some Are Lakes

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Winter Birds

It's the Widow now that owns that angry plow, 

The spartan Mule and The Crippled Cow 

The fallow field that will yield no more, 

As the fox lay sleeping beneath her kitchen floor 

The stream can't contain such the withering rain, 

And from the pasture the fence it is leaning away 

The clouds crack and growl 

Like some great cat on the prowl 

Crying out, "I am, I am" over and over again 

The days grow short 

As the nights grow long 

The kettle sings its tortured song 

As many petalled kiss I place upon her brow, 

Oh, my lady, Lady I am loving you now 

The winter birds have come back again, 

Here the sprightly Chickadee 

Gone now is the Willow Wren 

In passing greet each other as if old, old friends 

And to the voiceless trees 

It is their own they will lend 

The days grow short 

As the nights grow long 

The kettle sings its tortured song 

As many petalled kiss I place upon her brow, 

Oh, my lady, Lady I am loving you now 

And though all these things will change, 

The memories will remain 

As green to gold, and gold to brown 

The leaves will fall to feed the ground 

And in their falling, make no sound 

Oh my lady, 

Lady I am loving you now 

I've gathered all my money and I'm goin' to town, 

To buy my lady a long and flowing gown 

'Cause come tomorrow morning 

We're off to the county fair 

I'll find a yellow flower 

And I will lace it in her hair 

Ray LaMontagne- Winter Birds

José Parlá

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Takashi Iwasaki

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"Does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of, I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent, I never thought about things at all, everything changed, the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn’t the world, it wasn’t the bombs and burning buildings, it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go, is ignorance bliss, I don’t know, but it’s so painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me, to what great place did thinking ever bring me? I think and think and think, I’ve thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it."

— Jonathan Safran Foer