The Love of Morning

It is hard sometimes to drag ourselves 

back to the love of morning
after we've lain in the dark crying out
O God, save us from the horror . . . .

 

God has saved the world one more day
even with its leaden burden of human evil;
we wake to birdsong.
And if sunlight's gossamer lifts in its net
the weight of all that is solid,
our hearts, too, are lifted,
swung like laughing infants;

 

 but on gray mornings,
all incident - our own hunger,
the dear tasks of continuance,
the footsteps before us in the earth's
beloved dust, leading the way - all,
is hard to love again
for we resent a summons
that disregards our sloth, and this
calls us, calls us.

 

~ Denise Levertov

This Old World

We are but

recent visitors

in this

old world.

Try To Understand

Do not deny

the intimacies perceived

in the provenance 

of gathered images

framed and influenced 

by strong beliefs 

and personal recollections

as you struggle to paint

a particular alphabet 

composed in black 

silhouette.

If anything…

Try to understand

something

of the semblance

of their history,

attending to

the tiniest pieces

of life in the

interrogation of
each impression's

raw data.

The Fire In The Song

The mouth opens and fills the air with its vibrant shape
Until the air and the mouth become one shape
And the first word
your own word
Spoken from that fire
Surprises burns
Grieves you now because you made that pact
With the dark presence in your life
He said, “If you only stop singing
I’ll make you safe”
And he repeated the line,
“I’ll make you safe”.
Knowing you would hear it as the comforting sound
Of a door closed on the fear at last

But his darkness slipped under your tongue and became the dim cave
Where you sheltered and grew in that small place
Too frightened to remember the songs of the world
Its impossible notes
And the sweet joy that flew out the door
Of your wild mouth as you spoke

 

~ David Whyte

Shaking The Tree

Vine and branch we’re connected in this world 

of sound and echo, figure and shadow, the leaves
contingent, roots pushing against earth. An apple
 
belongs to itself, to stem and tree, to air
that claims it, then ground. Connections
balance, each motion changes another. Precarious,
 
hanging together, we don’t know what our lives
support, and we touch in the least shift of breathing.
Each holy thing is borrowed.  Everything depends.

 

~ Jeanne Lohmann