Andy Goldsworthy: Stop playing in our forest. Or wait, actually don’t stop at all.
This is a painting in progress of Venice by Sylvan, as part of his report on Italy. So far, so beautiful.
I love these dreads and this girl: Now your twinkles come with a halo.
Squash side dish for Thanksgiving: pureed butternut squash with a little bit of butter and cinnamon, with roasted pumpkin seeds. I also sautéed apples and onions with curry and cardamom and boiled cider.
And we got all this snow! Cold and crisp and sparkling! We are so grateful to be in our new house this holiday season.
Here’s a poem, an ode to my favorite month:
She is the most elegant of months,
though she’d never say exactly,
with her dark eyes
that are a little sad.
She used to smoke
Gauloises in her youth,
when she was in Paris
and it was trés cool.
You can see tiny lines
around her mouth.
She’s not taken in
by fashion fads:
she knows quality when she sees it,
she knows how to shop the sales.
Her colors are woodsmoke grey,
the black of wet bark,
inky shadows under the moonlight,
the russet of oak leaves
against the white sky.
Her coats are her signature,
made of fur or wool
with classic lines;
she swishes by
and there’s that hint of her perfume
that you can never quite place.
Of course she’s taken lovers,
but never a husband.
She doesn’t need October’s abundance
or December’s frivolity:
they’re really just too much.
She’s better off alone,
along the edge of the lake.