Angels

 

You might see an angel anytime and anywhere.

Of course, you have to open your eyes to a kind of
second level, but it’s not really hard.

The whole business of what’s reality and what isn’t has never been solved and probably never will be.

So I don’t care to be too definite about anything.
I have a lot of edges called Perhaps and almost nothing you can call Certainty.

For myself, but not for other people.

That’s a place you just can’t get into, not entirely anyway, other people’s heads.

I’ll just leave you with this.
I don’t care how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.

It’s enough to know that for some people they exist, and that they dance.

--Mary Oliver

[Our sweet and sassy angel, Ella Lynn].

Missing the Boat

 

It is not so much that the boat passed
and you failed to notice it.
It is more like the boat stopping
directly outside your bedroom window,
the captain blowing the signal-horn,
the band playing a rousing march.

The boat shouted, waving bright flags,
its silver hull blinding in the sunlight.

But you had this idea you were going by train.

You kept checking the time-table,
digging for tracks.

And the boat got tired of you,
so tired it pulled up the anchor
and raised the ramp.

The boat bobbed into the distance,
shrinking like a toy—
at which point you probably realized
you had always loved the sea.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Miracle Fair

Commonplace miracle:

that so many commonplace miracles happen.

An ordinary miracle:

in the dead of night

the barking of invisible dogs.

One miracle out of many:

a small, airy cloud

yet it can block a large and heavy moon.

Several miracles in one:

an alder tree reflected in the water,

and that it’s backwards left to right

and that it grows there, crown down

and never reaches the bottom,

even though the water is shallow.

An everyday miracle:

winds weak to moderate

turning gusty in storms.

First among equal miracles:

cows are cows.

Second to none:

just this orchard

from just that seed.

A miracle without a cape and top hat:

scattering white doves.

A miracle, for what else could you call it:

today the sun rose at three-fourteen

and will set at eight-o-one.

A miracle, less surprising than it should be:

even though the hand has fewer than six fingers,

it still has more than four.

A miracle, just take a look around:

the world is everywhere.

An additional miracle, as everything is additional:

the unthinkable

is thinkable.

—Wislawa Szymborska

Translated by Joanna Trzeciak

What This Is Not

 This is not just surprise and pleasure.

This is not just beauty sometimes
too hot to touch.

This is not a blessing with a beginning
and an end.

This is not just a wild summer.
This is not conditional.

—-Mary Oliver

[Photo taken in Seabeck, WA - August 2024]

Volunteer Maple

From a sapling 

decades ago,

the volunteer maple

in the row of pines

behind the barn,

arrayed with hand-sized 

green leaves,

now shows itself 

more substantial 

than the pair 

we planted 

next to the house 

for shade.

I don’t yet know

what the lesson is here,

only that 

after all this time

I am just noticing

how the tree took root

and thrived

without our intention

compared to everything

around it 

needing care:

astilbe, 

painted fern,

hydrangea, and lilac –

even the lawn,

which has become

almost half clover

for the bees 

to feast on,

softly buzzing, 

during their season 

of need.

--Jason Harlow (son of a colleague, friend, and Vermont neighbor).

[Photos of the Volunteer Maple].

These I Can Promise

 

I cannot promise you a life of sunshine;
I cannot promise you riches, wealth or gold;
I cannot promise you an easy pathway
That leads away from change or growing old.

But I can promise all my heart’s devotion;
A smile to chase away your tears of sorrow.
A love that’s true and ever growing;
A hand to hold in your’s through each tomorrow.

--Mark Twain

[Celebrating our 45th anniversary on our back deck in TN]. 

Lately,

 

                when a branch pulls at my sleeve

like a child's tug, or the fog, reticent & thick,

lifts--& strands of it hang like spun sugar

in branches & twigs, or when a phoebe

trills from the hackberry,

                            I believe such luck

is meant for me.  Does this happen to you?

Do you believe at times that a moment

chooses you to remember it & tell about it__

so that it may live again?

--Laure-Anne Bosselaar

[Foggy afternoon on the Schoodic Peninsula in Acadia National Park].