What did Martha Ostenso mean by: There was nothing so real on the prairie as winter, nothing so memorable. - Martha Ostenso Author · Canada Copy
+ A sickness … defines margins, crystallizes the shape of things. Feraz Zeid, January 3, 2024January 10, 2024, Martha Ostenso, Illness, Shapes, Sickness, 0 - Martha Ostenso Author · Canada
+ There’s precious little comes of telling people what they don’t want to hear. Feraz Zeid, January 3, 2024January 10, 2024, Martha Ostenso, Advice, 0 - Martha Ostenso Author · Canada
+ You have stirred the soil with your plow, my friend. It will never be the same again. Feraz Zeid, January 3, 2024January 10, 2024, Martha Ostenso, Farming, Friendship, Soil, 0 - Martha Ostenso Author · Canada
+ I don’t see as it matters much how well you mean if it’s harm you’re doin’. Feraz Zeid, January 3, 2024January 10, 2024, Martha Ostenso, Harm, 0 - Martha Ostenso Author · Canada
+ Here and there on the branch of an oak a congress of leaves still clung, rigid as flakes of bronze. Feraz Zeid, January 3, 2024January 10, 2024, Martha Ostenso, Autumn, 0 - Martha Ostenso Author · Canada
+ Ah, life, life, how madly, how cruelly it raced along your pulses! Feraz Zeid, January 3, 2024January 10, 2024, Martha Ostenso, 0 - Martha Ostenso Author · Canada
+ Growing old was simply a process of drawing closer to that ultimate independence called death. Feraz Zeid, January 3, 2024January 10, 2024, Martha Ostenso, Death, Drawing, Independence, 0 - Martha Ostenso Author · Canada
During a warm winter rain … the basins of her collarbones collected water. - Jeffrey Eugenides Author
No one can look at a pine tree in winter without knowing that spring will come again in due time. - Frank Bolles Author
Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his friendly handshaking Explain - Friedrich Nietzsche Philosopher · Germany
The Snow-drop, Winter’s timid child, Awakes to life, bedew’d with tears. - Mary Robinson Politician · Ireland
They [potatoes] are good for boys cold fingers at suppertime on winter nights. - Mary Virginia Terhune
There is a wilder solitude in winter When every sense is pricked alive and keen. - May Sarton Poet · Belgium
