It is time for a holiday, to a cabin in a forest with a lake. I have books and a canoe. I am unplugging from the grid. See you on the other side.
The Hermitage at the Center
The leaves on the macadam make a noise-
How soft the grass on which the desired
Reclines in the temperature of heaven-
Like tales that were told the day before yesterday-
Sleek in a natural nakedness
She attends the tintinnabula-
And the wind sways like a great thing tottering-
Of birds called up more than the sun,
Birds of more wit, that substitute-
Which suddenly is all dissolved and gone-
Their intelligible twittering
For unintelligible thought.
And yet this end and this beginning are one,
And one last look at the ducks is a look
At lucent children round her in a ring.
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