I have an overwhelming amount of blessings for which I am grateful. In this current precarious moment of American life, I want to take a step away from fear, anxiety and concern and share a poem that always lifts my spirits. Many of you are probably already familiar with this poem, and with good reason. It's one the great ones.
A Blessing
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more, they begin munching the young tufts of
spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
~by James Wright
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3 comments:
Beautiful poem, Julie! Don and I had a discussion yesterday - we are actively turning away from all the fear and dire predictions. We are blessed.
JuB!
YAY. You're back. I LOVED this poem. LOVED. Been really struggling this week, in spite of your great purging evening with Darcie and upcoming Palm Sunday & Easter on my horizon, so reading this was a good reminder for JOY.
love ya!
-stine
James Wright is a favorite. My favorite gratitude poems include "The God Who Loves You" by Carl Dennis and "The Continuous Life" by Mark Strand. Also, this: (line breaks are wrong, of course).
The Life of A Day
Like people or dogs, each day is unique and has
it's own personality quirks which can easily be seen
if you look closely. But there are so few days as
compared to people, not to mention dogs, that it
would be surprising if a day were not a hundred
times more interesting than most people. But
usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless
they are wildly nice, like autumn ones full of red
maple trees and hazy sunlight, or if they are grimly
awful ones in a winter blizzard that kills the lost
traveler and bunches of cattle. For some reason
we like to see days pass, even though most of us
claim we don't want to reach our last one for a
long time. We examine each day before us with
barely a glance and say, no, this isn't the one I've been
looking for, and wait in a bored sort of way for
the next , when, we are convinced, our lives will
start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by per-
fectly well-adjusted, as some days are, with the
right amounts of sunlight and shade, and a light
breeze scented with a perfume made from the
mixture of fallen apples, corn stubble, dry oak
leaves, and the faint odor of last night's meander-
ing skunk.
by Tom Hennen
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