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after Rossellini’s “Flowers of St. Francis” 
Cormac McCarthy on the origins of language, Neruda's poems get a new coat of paint, and Pentecost ushers in the turning of the seasons.
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Like something in a jar. 
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Let your houses be made of stone.
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How I stopped worrying and learned to trick my brain, the satire of Kawanabe Kyōsai, and the lengthening days of Eastertide.
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Take this air of young-damp earth At eve: this same night again repeated As if rehearsing its rebirth Until death itself defeated. 
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RIP Christopher Alexander, the last bastions of the American Elm, and John Michael Greer reups catabolic collapse.
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Ai Weiwei’s memoirs of a life in perpetual opposition, the nature of Internet and Time, and Ash Wednesday coming with gifts of ashes and dust.
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and those little Christmas lights spread across the sky
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Georges Braques’ quiet dedication, Robert Frost’s snowswept voids, and the Irish saints bringing gifts of poetry, art, and honey.
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who saw the dry Earth and said: Yes 
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Taking stock of the year in my little kingdom, RIP Didion, and why does Christmas have twelve days, anyway?
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