The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
Coming downout of the freezing skywith its depths of light,like an angel,or a buddha with wings,it was beautifuland accurate,striking the snow and whatever was therewith a force that left the imprintof the tips of its wings—five feet apart—and the grabbingthrust…
What happensto the leaves afterthey turn red and golden and fallaway? What happens to the singing birdswhen they can’t singany longer? What happensto their quick wings? Do you think there is anypersonal heavenfor any of us?Do you think anyone, the…
In every heart there is a coward and a procrastinator.In every heart there is a god of flowers, just waitingto come out of its cloud and lift its wings.The kookaburras, kingfishers, pressed against the edge oftheir cage, they asked me…
His beak could open a bottle,and his eyes—when he lifts their soft lids—go on reading somethingjust beyond your shoulder—Blake, maybe,or the Book of Revelation. Never mind that he eats onlythe black-smocked crickets,and dragonflies if they happento be out late over…
Somewhere a black bear has just risen from sleep and is staringdown the mountain. All night in the brisk and shallow restlessness of early springI think of her, her four black fists flicking the gravel, her tonguelike a red fire…
Who made the world?Who made the swan, and the black bear?Who made the grasshopper?This grasshopper, I mean—the one who has flung herself out of the grass,the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,who is moving her jaws back…
“Make of yourself a light,”said the Buddha,before he died.I think of this every morningas the east beginsto tear off its many cloudsof darkness, to send up the firstsignal—a white fanstreaked with pink and violet,even green.An old man, he lay downbetween…
Is the soul solid, like iron?Or is it tender and breakable, likethe wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?Who has it, and who doesn’t?I keep looking around me.The face of the moose is as sadas the face…
1.There’s this shape, black as the entrance to a cave.A longing wells up in its throatlike a blossomas it breathes slowly.What does the worldmean to you if you can’t trust itto go on shining when you’renot there? And there’sa tree,…
Once, in summer, in the blueberries, I fell asleep, and woke when a deer stumbled against me.I guess she was so busy with her own happiness she had grown careless and was just wandering alonglistening to the wind as she…