a formal feeling comes-- The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs; The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore? And yesterday--or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round A wooden way Of ground, or air, or ought, Regardless grown, A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead Remembered if outlived, As freezing persons recollect the snow-- First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.
Emily Dickinson
Sunday, May 16, 2010
(Re)touched
Thanks to another wonderful Mom who lost her little girl as I lost Milos for retouching these pictures. I am so touched by her love and attention to these images. Thank You!
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