Saturday, May 17, 2025

Sometimes

 

Sometimes, when a bird calls, or a wind moves through the brush, or a dog barks in a distant farmyard, I must listen a long time, and hush. My soul flies back to where, before a thousand forgotten years begin, the bird and the waving wind were like me, and were my kin. My soul becomes a tree, an animal, a cloud woven across the sky. Changed and unfamiliar it turns back and questions me. How shall I reply?

--Herman Hesse



No comments:

Post a Comment

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...