Monday, September 08, 2008
8 September 2008. Autumn gray, bay fog laps hills. Ying's six o'clock smile, beaming through the dark.
Or three sisters, their own darkness, from somewhere deep in time. Ancient braids, bound in home-spun, cotton shifts prevail--whiteness--and a certain modesty, but purely from within.
Or Cézanne, crossing the schoolyard to greet an outcast--the young Émile Zola--who next morning brings a gift--a wicker basket filled with apples--each one green...