"In summer an idle sea stretched broad-bosomed and dreaming between skylines-for days at a time too indolent to stir more than just enough to betray its eternal restlessness. Across its glittering reaches wavelets, in sabbath mood, billowed lazily; finding an islet or skerry, they would rise, curious; then they would murmur on along headlands and around venturesome points, but purl more softly against the beaches of coves." - O. E. Rolvaag, Boat of Longing

It’s too perfect here / Arctic red, white and ochre / Boats at rest /Red, white, and ochre / Mountains as sentinels / Guard this perfection / Watching, wordless, speechless.

“And sun. Day and night-sun. Through the entire round of hours it found nothing to do but pour splendour upon sea and sky, on steely crag and growthless rocks. Gold glittered, gold flamed crimson, and gold-dull and inert- glowed feebly, like dying embers. Everywhere sun...Sunny too the moods of men at this season of the year.” - O. E. Rolvaag, Boat of Longing

The Valkyries/ Goddesses of this night now, / Listen to the thunder of their steads as they / Fire the night, / In agony and ecstasy, choosing who, you, me, thee / Will die tomorrow / In embrace of destiny.

Oh look, look, look, / There’s Merope hiding with her sisters / In the Pleiades / Fleeing the embrace of the once-blinded Orion. / My daughter and her daughter / Have these most perfect stars / Right on the bridge of their nose.

I had wanted to see / The Big Dipper, Ursa Major, / Gather her royal cape / In splendor.

I stand in this cold darkness / Awaiting the coming of the light, / As if I’m in the birth room / Awaiting the coming of a baby. / A glimmer, a shadow, moving secretly into the night, / Here, maybe there, hiding, seeking, / Then an eruption, a volcano in the skies, / Lasting now then forever / And I hear my baby cry.