To Begin With, the Sweet Grass

 

3.
The witchery of living
is my whole conversation
with you my darlings.
All I can tell you is what I know.

Look, and look again.
This world is not just a little thrill for the eyes.

It’s more than bones.
It’s more than the delicate wrist with its personal pulse.
It’s more than the beating of the single heart.
It’s praising.
It’s giving until the giving feels like receiving.
You have a life—just imagine that!
You have this day, and maybe another, and maybe still another.

7.

...And I have become the child of the clouds, and of hope.
I have become the friend of the enemy, whoever that is.
I have become older and, cherishing what I have learned,
I have become younger.

And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know?
Love yourself. Then forget it. Then, love the world.

--Mary Oliver

Beneath the Sweater and the Skin

How many years of beauty do I have left?

she asks me.

How many more do you want?

Here. Here is 34. Here is 50.

 

When you are 80 years old

and your beauty rises in ways

your cells cannot even imagine now

and your wild bones grow luminous and

ripe, having carried the weight

of a passionate life.

 

When your hair is aflame

with winter

and you have decades of

learning and leaving and loving

sewn into

the corners of your eyes

and your children come home

to find their own history

in your face.

 

When you know what it feels like to fail

ferociously

and have gained the

capacity

to rise and rise and rise again.

 

When you can make your tea

on a quiet and ridiculously lonely afternoon

and still have a song in your heart

Queen owl wings beating

beneath the cotton of your sweater.

 

Because your beauty began there

beneath the sweater and the skin,

remember?

 

This is when I will take you

into my arms and coo

YOU BRAVE AND GLORIOUS THING

you've come so far.

I see you.

Your beauty is breathtaking.

 --Jeannette Encinias

[Photo of my mother who has 89 years of breathtaking beauty!]

One Heart

If I can stop even one heart from

breaking, I shall not live in vain.

 —Emily Dickinson

I may not keep your heart from breaking,

but if I can stitch up even one

small corner of a single chamber,

I will have done my work for the day.

If I can help you turn your gaze

toward the clouds at sunset going

slowly orange then pink, becoming

shadows as the net of dusk gets thrown

over the house and trees, then I can

sleep tonight, knowing you stood with me

at the window, hand on your chest,

letting the sickle-moon, as soon

as it appeared, slice through 

each of your fears as easily as bread.

—James Crews 

October 10

 

Now constantly there is the sound,
quieter than rain,
of the leaves falling.

Under their loosening bright
gold, the sycamore limbs
bleach whiter.

Now the only flowers
are beeweed and aster, spray
of their white and lavender
over the brown leaves.

The calling of a crow sounds
Loud — landmark — now
that the life of summer falls
silent, and the nights grow.

--Wendell Berry

YOUR PERFECT (not a grammatical error)

If you are not broken,

bruised,

weathered

and worn,

where have you been my friend?

If your battered heart,

does not still break,

every day,

then perhaps you are not paying attention?

Don’t come out of this life

preserved and perfect my friend,

you’re supposed to crumble

and rebuild a million times over,

until your soul is satisfied,

you have given your all.

Because that’s why you are here.

Your perfect is not needed,

but your broken is very important,

very important indeed.

Donna Ashworth

The Old Wisdom

 

When the night wind makes the pine trees creak
And the pale clouds glide across the dark sky,
Go out my child, go out and seek
Your soul: The Eternal I.

For all the grasses rustling at your feet
And every flaming star that glitters high
Above you, close up and meet
In you: The Eternal I.

Yes, my child, go out into the world; walk slow
And silent, comprehending all, and by and by
Your soul, the Universe, will know
Itself: the Eternal I.

—Jane Goodall (1934-2025; poem written March 2014)

[Posted in tribute to Jane Goodall's exemplary life of integrity, curiosity, research, and advocacy].

Look for the Helpers

            for Fred Rogers

Today, I will look for the helpers—

the woman pouring sunflower seeds

from an orange bag into the feeder,

and a chickadee, having eaten its fill,

lifting off so another can feast there.

Someone holding open the fogged-over

door of the coffee shop for a stranger

who smiles and says thank you in spite

of the news. I will watch workers dressed

in neon vests with shovels and buckets,

filling potholes across the city, the asphalt

steaming as they spread it over the street,

then tamp it down, repairing what they can.

—James Crews

[Three of my favorite helpers].