WomanWyrds

This soft September chill

opens me to some quietness, not melancholy but a nature more attuned to inwardness than frantic solstices or summertime fair/fare:

thus, today's sharing, from T.S.Eliot,

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.

"East Coker," The Four Quartets

posted by Heather Cardin @ 9:49 AM