One wading a Fall meadow finds on all sides The Queen Anne’s Lace lying like lilies On water; it glides So from the walker, it turns Dry grass to a lake, as the slightest shade of you Valleys my mind in fabulous blue Lucernes.
The beautiful changes as a forest is changed By a chameleon’s tuning his skin to it; As a mantis, arranged On a green leaf, grows Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows.
Your hands hold roses always in a way that says They are not only yours; the beautiful changes In such kind ways, Wishing ever to sunder Things and things’ selves for a second finding, to lose For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.
Blue lights on the runway like stars
on the surface of a well
into which I fall each night from the sky,
emerging through the tunnel door
of the jetway, and the black waters
of the night, in the cities of America.
In the lit rooms of glass and steel,
in the still and secret towers,
under the true stars hid by cloud
and the steam shrouded roofs
of the mansions of money and hope,
I come with my quiet voice and
my insistence, and my stories,
and out of that second and
deeper well I see again those other
blue stars and that other darkness
closer even than the night outside,
the one we refuse to mention,
the darkness we know so well
I have a few griefs and joys I can call my own and through accident it seems, a steadfast faith in each of them and that's what I will say matters when the story ends.
But it takes a little while to get there, all the unburdening and the laying down and the willingness to really tire of yourself, and the step by step the ways the poets through time generously gave themselves to us, walking like pilgrims through doubt, combining their fear their fierceness and their faith.
and you now, in front of the room under the florescent light by the reflected window hiding all the stars you have forgotten....
One more member of the prison population whose eyes have caught the open gate at last. You are the one for whom the gift was made.
Keep that look in your eyes and you'll gladly grow tired of your reflection.
There, for all to see, the well of stars, the great night from which you were born.
Ordinarily I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.
I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.
Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing.
If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.
In the willingness to feel,
there is healing. In the
choice not to closet, cast
aside or deny experience,
energy is freed, and I
dive deeper into life.
There may be maturity in
choosing not to act, but
there are no rewards for
suppression and denial.
To be fully alive is saying
yes to the wide array of
human feelings. When I
soften, release and breathe,
I discover I am more than
what I think, feel, reason,
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
When I hear them call in the morning, before I am quite awake, my bed is already traveling the daily rainbow, the arc toward evening; and the birds, leading their own discreet lives of hunger and watchfulness, are with me all the way, always a little ahead of me in the long-practiced manner of unobtrusive guides.
By the time I arrive at evening, they have just settled down to rest; already invisible, they are turning into the dreamwork of trees; and all of us together — myself and the purple finches, the rusty blackbirds, the ruby cardinals, and the white-throated sparrows with their liquid voices — ride the dark curve of the earth toward daylight, which they announce from their high lookouts before dawn has quite broken for me.