on reading Rilke
"the wind turns the pages...."
we live a strange book, wherein we advance, line by line, without having the right to read the next page before the wind has turned it; but we possess the privilege of returning to a passage we have read before, and seeing it reappear before our eyes. and we do this especially when the wind has risen, and a leaf has trembled under our fingers.
|hiking in los padres national forest- becoming, constantly becoming|