Last night as I was walking home, I happened to look up and notice the way the streetlights illuminated the new young leaves on the sidewalk trees — a beautiful thing I had never seen before. Something about the way the light caught the leaves, each small and distinct, made them look like fragments of paper, suspended and ordered in fantastic patterns. They reminded me of a scattering of coins, or maybe some piece of art made from the wings of white moths, and made me wish I was better with a camera or had some true poetic vocation. I can't capture really how surprisingly lovely it was.
Anyway, looking ahead instead of up:
- cauliflower pizzas
- Zach Harris' 'lapidary painted wooden reliefs of imaginary landscapes'
- six hours of sorrow
- reading diaries
Feldspar acorn earrings, ca. 1880s-1890s, from Erie Basin. (I like them because they look like the kind of nut I imagine might grow on a moonlit tree.)