Beneath a layered gauze of atmosphere,
the earth this morning rests--a dew draped glory
of living emerald, an orchestra of instruments all alive:
brown thrasher, gold finch, cardinal, wren.
I walk roads all familiar with memories
of small things which made them ours--
rides with Grandma and her last remembered loves:
Grandpa, the clouds, our countryside.
The roadsides wave green grasses, and someone
has cut the willows, the little willows in ditches
Grandpa seldom mowed lest he mangle nests,
Grandpa of wry love of birds . . . and cats.
Leaving the road, water fills my toes
from ankle deep pasture at the timber's edge,
and I recall a tangle of associations: sting of hot wire
across child's belly, a house fire--a playing card--ice cream for supper!
Somewhere here, we rediscovered
a three-year-old's grave, a hundred years gone
but remembered by name by us. The timber
and tall grasses have crept to cover his place again.
Behind the fallen fence, tucked through the trees,
bluebells are snippets, curled remnants of heaven.
A woodpecker sounds his secret creating. A bird
I do not recognize darts from gold to shadow.
the earth this morning rests--a dew draped glory
of living emerald, an orchestra of instruments all alive:
brown thrasher, gold finch, cardinal, wren.
I walk roads all familiar with memories
of small things which made them ours--
rides with Grandma and her last remembered loves:
Grandpa, the clouds, our countryside.
The roadsides wave green grasses, and someone
has cut the willows, the little willows in ditches
Grandpa seldom mowed lest he mangle nests,
Grandpa of wry love of birds . . . and cats.
Leaving the road, water fills my toes
from ankle deep pasture at the timber's edge,
and I recall a tangle of associations: sting of hot wire
across child's belly, a house fire--a playing card--ice cream for supper!
Somewhere here, we rediscovered
a three-year-old's grave, a hundred years gone
but remembered by name by us. The timber
and tall grasses have crept to cover his place again.
Behind the fallen fence, tucked through the trees,
bluebells are snippets, curled remnants of heaven.
A woodpecker sounds his secret creating. A bird
I do not recognize darts from gold to shadow.
Such beauty!
ReplyDeleteIt was such a profoundly beautiful morning, Thomas. Thanks for enjoying this glimpse with me!
DeleteI have tried to leave such memories for my daughters and granddaughters. They are so very precious. I'm so glad you have these memroies. Indigeneous cultures honored places as sacred because of these memories. I'm so glad you get to revisit these sacred places.
ReplyDeleteMe, too, Newell. From what you have shared, I can tell your children and grandchildren must have a rich store of memories from you and your family--deep pockets full of treasures!
DeleteWhen I was in seminary I had a class called, Schliermacher to Bultman. I wrote a paper on Carl Marx, using only primary sources, not wanting others' ideas to influence me. The professor approved, saying, reading carefully and writing carefully is how a scholar expresses love.
ReplyDeleteYou observe so carefully, and reflect so honestly, and write so carefully, that your writing expresses love to those who read your words. I have said it before, but I really want you to believe it, your wirting is a place I come to for rest, when I am physically and emotionally tired. Thank you for your gift to us.
You're welcome, and thank you for this, Newell. I am so glad this is a place of rest for you.
Delete