Love sorrow. She is yours now, and you must take care of what has been given. Brush her hair, help her into her little coat, hold her hand, especially when …
Red apples hang frozen in a stick-dry, snow-dusty network of branches, against lamb’s wool and pastelblue of sky, a crooked woodenness, a wizzening red. – Margaret Avison, Sunblue (23, 1-5)