The stars are falling like rain.

And some people feel the rain while others just get wet (Marley).

Twenty-one year-old girl, Lisa, from New England. INFP. Lover of the diggable tsac.


There is, all around us,
this country
of original fire.

Listen, whatever it is you try
to do with your life, nothing will ever dazzle you
like the dreams of your body,

its spirit
longing to fly while the dead-weight of bones

toss their dark mane and hurry
back into the fields of glittering fire

where everything,
even the great whale,
throbs with song.

—Mary Oliver, American Primitive, from “Humpbacks.”

    the blue of the sky falls over me

    like silk, the flowers burn, and I want
    to live my life over again, to begin again,

    to be utterly

    —Mary Oliver, American Primitive, from “A Meeting.”
      "[the blue damselfly’s] eyes
      staring east where the summer moon
      is rising,
      brushing over the dark pond,
      for all of us, the white flower
      of dreams."
      —Mary Oliver, American Primitive, from “Little Sister Pond.”
        "there is no end,
        believe me! to the inventions of summer,
        to the happiness your body
        is willing to bear."
        —Mary Oliver, American Primitive, from “The Roses.”
          "become again a flaming body of blind feeling"
          —Mary Oliver, American Primitive, from “The Sea.”
Fiordland National Park By Agreeing

            Fiordland National Park By Agreeing


Sincerely, Kinsey

. by Stephen Edwards. on Flickr.


                  . by Stephen Edwards. on Flickr.



kinfolk l’esprit de la mer dinner / Nashville, TN by Beth Kirby | {local milk} on Flickr.

                          (Source: shotsinnature)


                            Have you seen the roses shiver then open their small fluted perfect panels of mildest silk, besieged
                            by another idea? Have you seen their wild faces
                            when they first open?

                            Have you seen them lifting themselves to the
                            heat of the sun,
                            or the rain tapping with its slender fingers on
                            the pale sand below?
                            Or the bunched bee in the blossoms, doing its work,
                            entering and emerging, and the flowers
                            shining in their bed of leaves?

                            —Mary Oliver, The Leaf and The Cloud, "Rhapsody," pt. 4

                              (Source: monochromeinc)