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].

Folding Altar

 

I carry my church with me

wherever I go, unfolding the altar

of a moment while out walking

with my husband, pausing to pick

a few dandelions gone to seed,

taking a deep breath, then blowing,

sending those silver messengers

into the air above a field,

each one the seed of a prayer

I say every day I'm alive:

Please let me give up all hope

for a better past, and just be here

by the side of the driveway,

watching wisps of clouds turning

pink with evening, then purple,

and listening to the complex solo

of a catbird perched in a maple

as we say goodbye to the light

which may leave the sky tonight

but will stay with us, flickering

for years to come.

--James Crews

[Sunset over the Sequatchie Valley in TN].

No Small Thing

It’s no small thing to learn the names

of the birds you hear each day,

perched on the tops of coneflowers

gone to seed, calling from the hedgerow.

It’s no small thing to belt out

Cardinal, catbird, goldfinch, when you

stop between breaths to listen,

teasing out their strands of song

from the rustling of river birches

and the distant roar of a lawn mower.

It’s no small thing to go so quiet

you hear the chorus of your thoughts

crescendo, then fall away as you

notice the patch of sun on a stone wall

blanketed in sphagnum moss,

and imagine the unseen beings—

nematodes and water bears—who

thrive in tiny pools of rain suspended

between the moss’ tiny leaves.

—James Crews