when folds of night mingles with bands of day

... or to crawl into the shadows and sit quitly and become a part of the slow freshet of night ...

I'm currently reading Paul Harding's 'tinkers' - he's painting amazingly beautiful pictures on the inside of my eyelids. I sometimes read out aloud to deligth in the words, savouring small fragments, tucking them away like scraps of beloved fabrics saved for a quilt.

... 'The quilt of leaves and light and shadow and ruffling breezes might part and I'd be given a glimpse of what is on the other side; a stitch might work itself loose or be worked loose. The weaver might have made one bad loop in the foliage of a sugar maple by the road and that one loop of whatever the thread might be wound from – light, gravity, dark from stars – had somehow been worked loose by the wind in its constant worrying of white buds and green leaves and blood-and-orange leaves and bare branches and two of the pieces of whatever it is that this world is knit from had come loose from each other and there was maybe just a finger width's hole, which I was lucky enough to spot in the glittering leaves ...'
 - Poul Harding