We Rise To Greet It

With ourselves glued to its window

let us paint its moments that feed our soul.

. . . . .

The main thing is to be moved, to love, to hope, to tremble, to live.

– Auguste Rodin

. . . . .

From bitter searching of the heart,

Quickened with passion and with pain

We rise to play a greater part.

This is the faith from which we start…

– Leonard Cohen

It Gathers Us In

I felt it

in this whiteness –

a    b  r  e  a  t  h  i  n  g    s  p  a  c  e.

* * *

This silence at my disposal – a deliberate ploy intended, perhaps, to slow me down, that I might instigate a conversation or a poem at least, midst this dominance of snow – flakes accumulating as they descend from the sky of the world, each intricately sculpted like an exquisite work of art. Contemplating its beauty, in thick white tones the snow continues its fall, creating a deep layer blanketing the earth like a soft white feathered duvet, partially obscuring an indefinite number of things tucked in beneath it.

* * *

Any great work of art…revives and readapts time and space, and the measure of its success

is the extent to which it makes you an inhabitant of that world – the extent to which

it invites you in and lets you breathe its strange, special air.

– Leonard Bernstein

Nothing Moves But The Sun

A limited observer

such as I,

gone alone

into a room 

where others' selves

connected to it

once existed.

In all directions

I turn –

around and around

in this place

because I know it

not well – not well

enough at least

to try to interpret it.

The view seems empty until…

coming through so interestingly,

blending with the listless air,

the raw thrill of morning's light –

it is ever lovely,

witnessing the spreading of it.

A current interest issues forth, 

alleging a form of dialogue

punctuated by an impression

creeping into consciousness,

insinuating itself upon me –

I try to excerpt its poem, 

to write determinately its drama,

finding me where I am.

You Are The Music While The Music Lasts

I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.

– T. S. Eliot

. . . . .

And yet there is only one great thing

To live and see the great day that dawns

And the light that fills the world

(old Innu song)

Consider The Day The Year

THIS HOUR

Happiness, not in another place, but this place…

 not for another hour, but this hour.

– Walt Whitman

THE DAY

The day is an epitome of the year.

– Henry David Thoreau