Moonrise

Will you glimmer on the sea? Will you fling your spear-head On the shore? What note shall we pitch? We have a song, On the bank we share our arrows— The loosed string tells our note: O flight, Bring her swiftly to our song. She is great, We measure her by the pine-trees. Hilda Doolittle

Untold Stories and Acceptance

This morning I was struck by the realization that while the internet can be a volatile and scary place, there are some people who have discovered safe little corners where they can connect with others and feel safe enough to share their lives and their stories. I find sharing online tremendously difficult and often feel embarrassed by it,

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The Song of Los

The sky is an immortal tent built by the Sons of Los: And every space that a man views around his dwelling-place Standing on his own roof or in his garden on a mount Of twenty-five cubits in height, such space is his universe: And on its verge the sun rises and sets, the clouds

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