Nostalgia for the Eternal - Adks

Hard to watch everything failing, trees susceptible, leaves eaten, uprooted. Wishing like mad for rain, white-knuckled over the drying up of brooks. I watch a puddle evaporate and want back the springy rich green, rich black muck of just 25 years ago. It's a keening hard sorrow, to want back the vitality the woods gave me, and instead to witness this swift stress and destruction. The days are harsh hot and alien, inviting plagues of japanese beatles and who knows what all else. Many, like the frog brought to boil in the pot, simply don't notice. Why do I?

Thomas Hardy's Darkling Thrush

why is it this poem always makes me think of that one day I was
hunting, or was it just walking, through the graphite mines in
Chester Springs? Was it New Year's Day? Why do I think of that
overcast crisp, grey hopeful unresolved feeling, crunching something
underfoot, not know what this place was about?

the fish stick statistic

fascistic

exegesis of the tree

what would a tree sound like admiring a human?

feeling oxymorose

brooding in a contrary kind of way.

great work

with great work, you don't envy the creator, you envy what they made.