wish i could just ride in peace
wish i could just ride in peace
And you are quiet like the garden,
And white like the alyssum flowers,
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.
Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies?
They knew my mother,
But who belonging to me will they know
When I am gone.
--Amy Lowell
And you are quiet like the garden,
And white like the alyssum flowers,
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.
Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies?
They knew my mother,
But who belonging to me will they know
When I am gone.
--Amy Lowell
This is what every professional medical organization should be doing right now
#MedSky
www.acog.org/clinical/cli...
(gently, but increasingly bothered, lgb are not currently in sights of anyone but idaho; prove me wrong or quit using the full acronym for the fuckery. this gay-too shit feels as bad as fake-t)
(gently, but increasingly bothered, lgb are not currently in sights of anyone but idaho; prove me wrong or quit using the full acronym for the fuckery. this gay-too shit feels as bad as fake-t)
Opportunities are everywhere.
Make everything as hard as possible. Resist every demand. Refuse entry without a warrant. Don’t take the buyout. Their problem solving skills are 📉
Opportunities are everywhere.
Make everything as hard as possible. Resist every demand. Refuse entry without a warrant. Don’t take the buyout. Their problem solving skills are 📉
Naomi Shihab Nye
A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.
Naomi Shihab Nye
A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.
BY SHARA MCCALLUM
When the dead return
they will come to you in dream
and in waking, will be the bird
knocking, knocking against glass, seeking
a way in, will masquerade
as the wind, its voice made audible
by the tongues of leaves, greedily
lapping, as the waves’ self-made fugue
BY SHARA MCCALLUM
When the dead return
they will come to you in dream
and in waking, will be the bird
knocking, knocking against glass, seeking
a way in, will masquerade
as the wind, its voice made audible
by the tongues of leaves, greedily
lapping, as the waves’ self-made fugue
“I ask you to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now,” asked Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde.