Poetry

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Rain

When you go,
if you go,
And I should want to die,
there’s nothing I’d be saved by
more than the time
you fell asleep in my arms
in a trust so gentle
I let the darkening room
drink up the evening, till
rest, or the new rain
lightly roused you awake.
I asked if you heard the rain in your dream
and half dreaming still you only said, I love you.

Edwin Morgan

Wishful thinking…about the rain, at least.

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Thaw

I wonder

if the earth,

when frozen and unyielding,

scented by the two notes of acrid exhaust and wood smoke,

intends for the thaw to be so glorious.

For every pore to release

days and days of sweetness in one heady gasp,

and for me,

in perfect time,

to venture outside in communion.

I perform my daily ablution,

rhythmic thump and whoosh of scrub brush on concrete bird bath,

a delicate scattering of seed,

while uttering Hello to all that moves and breathes.

My feet gladly squelch

loam that gives and gives -

honeyed

muddy

soft.

It is a good question.

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Employed

The Real Work

It may be that when we no longer know what to do

we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know where to go

we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.

Wendell Berry

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Leaf

time is a tree (this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough

E.E. Cummings

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Forever

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

Mary Oliver

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