Anne Waters,
    December 21, 1862

Dreamed I had my baby
back,
Held her in a blanket
before the fire
and rubbed her
arms and legs
until she moved again,
and then began to cry.
I was suddenly
filled up,
like something solid
had entered my body,
or an arm lost long ago
had returned
to swell the empty sleeve and
drive away the phantom pain.
We ( Read more... )

All finite things reveal infinitude: 
The mountain with its singular bright shade
Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, 
The after-light upon ice-burdened pines;
Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope,
A scent beloved of bees;
Silence of water above a sunken tree : 
The pure serene of memory in one man, --
A ripple widening from a single stone
Winding ( Read more... )

THE SOUL selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausing         
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.

I’ve known her from an ample nation
Choose one;         
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.

( Read more... )

Authors you read for fun can surprise you.  In your mind, you put them in their place, somewhere reserved for this or that, but more often it's your mind that has limited them.  I was reading Dorothy Sayers this morning.  A strictly for fun author for me but someone who was plainly better educated than I am.   She loved writing and words so why was ( Read more... )

I knew as soon as I saw the wilted oak hydrangea piled in the trash can that there wouldn’t be anything left.  I couldn’t  bear to confirm that for a few days. I’ll miss the air of that place and the blooming spiderwort.  I regret not trying to take the hydrangea home.

One of the hollies has died of shock but the littlest one which I gave up on is ( Read more... )

Daises in my field. Daises everywhere. My only open-minded moment on the road yesterday, I looked over and saw daises covering a grassy hill. And a deer. A deer in the daises. That phrase makes me smile. That image lingers into today. Green, brown, white.

I am in love with my neighbor's oak hydrangeas. Funny, how love starts. Something you are aware ( Read more... )

I weeded carefully. Around the one tulip, past blooming, color unknown. I removed all the old poke and the new and some of the hemlock. It's important to be careful. You never know what you might find. There is a plant which resembles spiderwort but I cannot tell. I weeded round and left it there. I left the fleabane. I found some ivy. I filled one ( Read more... )

I bought her book for this one poem she read out loud.
A lulling voice, warm and soft:

Evening Song

This time of day the sun hangs west and low
and makes a yellow puddle on the grass
between the cedar and the Biltmore ash,
such slanting light the only God I know.

And why not God, who once could be the rain,
or else the thunder, or the lightning blow
that ( Read more... )

are blooming in the old garden.

Change and loss was what the brook cried
That she heard in the night-but she kept snug
With crow-wood for kindling, and the sun shone good
Through the tops of the pines, and her plants
Didn’t fail her  . . .  .

Jean Garrigue
        After Reading The Country of Pointed Firs

Sitting in the shade on a sunny day, trying to limit my damage to what’s already been done. So I’ll sit here.  At least until the coffee gets cold.  Trying to break the spell of a screwed up morning.  Late for court on a short docket day.  Judge continued the case for me, wanting my opinion.  I am not worthy of that trust, for sure.  Hurts knowing ( Read more... )