Joy is a piercing desire, a mystical longing both painful and sweet: a kind of homesickness for a home we scarcely remember.
~ Deborah Smith Douglas, in Weavings XV:4
You ask why I make my home in the mountain forest,
And I smile, and am silent,
And even my soul remains quiet:
It lives in the other world
Which no one owns.
The peach trees blossom.
The water flows.
And I smile, and am silent,
And even my soul remains quiet:
It lives in the other world
Which no one owns.
The peach trees blossom.
The water flows.