There is a brokenness
out of which comes the unbroken,
out of which blooms the unshatterable. There is a sorrow
beyond all grief which leads to joy
and a fragility
out of whose depths emerges strength. There is a hollow space
too vast for words
through which we pass with each loss,
out of whose darkness
we are sanctioned into being. There is a cry deeper than all sound
whose serrated edges cut the heart
as we break open to the place inside
I wonder if the sun debates dawn
not wanting to rise
out of bed
from under that down-feather horizon if the sky grows tired
of being everywhere at once
adapting to the mood
swings of the weather if clouds drift off
trying to hold themselves together
make deals with gravity
to loiter a little longer I wonder if rain is scared
if it has trouble
letting go if snow flakes get sick
of being perfect all the time
trying to be one-of-a-kind I wonder
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took m
I have been in love more times than one,
thank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting
whether active or not. Sometimes
it was all but ephemeral, maybe only
an afternoon, but not less real for that.
They stay in my mind, these beautiful people,
or anyway beautiful people to me, of which
there are so many. You, and you, and you,
whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe
missed. Love, love, love, it was the
core of my life, from which, of course, comes
the word for the heart. And, oh
Will the hungry ox stand in the field and not eat
of the sweet grass?
Will the owl bite off its own wings?
Will the lark forget to lift its body in the air or
forget to sing?
Will the rivers run upstream?
Behold, I say—behold
the reliability and the finery and the teachings
of this gritty earth gift. 2.
Eat bread and understand comfort.
Drink water, and understand delight.
Visit the garden where the scarlet trumpets
are opening their bodies for the hummingbi
Your exact errors make a music
that nobody hears.
Your straying feet find the great dance,
And you live on a world where stumbling
always leads home. Year after year fits over your face—
when there was youth, your talent
later, you find your way by touch
where moss redeems the stone; and you discover where music begins
before it makes any sound,
far in the mountains where canyons go
still as the always-falling, ever-new flakes of snow. #poetry #willi
Sometimes I choose a cloud and let it cross the sky floating me away. Or a bird unravels its song and carries me as it flies deeper and deeper into the woods. Is there a way to be gone and still belong? Travel that takes you home? Is that life? - to stand by a river and go. #poetry #williamstafford
Be a person here. Stand by the river, invoke
the owls. Invoke winter, then spring.
Let any season that wants to come here make its own
call. After that sound goes away, wait.
A slow bubble rises through the earth
and begins to include sky, stars, all space,
even the outracing, expanding thought.
Come back and hear the little sound again.
Suddenly this dream you are having matches
everyone’s dream, and the result is the world.
If a different call came there wouldn’t be any
At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled
after a night of rain.
I dip my cupped hands. I drink
a long time. It tastes
like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold
into my body, waking the bones. I hear them
deep inside me, whispering
oh what is that beautiful thing
that just happened? #poetry #maryoliver
I like to live in the sound of water,
in the feel of mountain air. A sharp
reminder hits me: this world is still alive,
it stretches out there shivering toward its own
creation. and I'm part of it. Even my breathing enters into this elaborate give-and-take,
this bowing to sun and moon. day or night.
winter, summer, storm, still--this tranquil
chaos that seem to be going somewhere.
This wilderness with a great peacefulness in it.
This motionless turmoil, this everything dance
a small purple artichoke
in its own bittered
grows tender and sweet patience, I think,
my species keep testing the spiny leaves the spiny heart #janehirshfield #poetry
The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn’t a place
in this world that doesn’t sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold, black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
loss is the great lesson. But I also say this: t