In the Dusk

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Sap withdraws from the upper reaches
of maples; the squirrel digs deeper
and deeper in the moss
to bury the acorns that fall
all around, distracting him.

I’m out here in the dusk…
where the wild asters, last blossoms
of the season, straggle uphill.
Frost flowers, I’ve heard them called.
The white ones have yellow centers
at first: later they darken
to a rosy copper.  They’re mostly done.
Then the blue ones come on. It’s blue
all around me now, though the color
has gone with the sun.

There is no one home but me—
and I’m not at home; I’m up here on the hill,
looking at the dark windows below.
Let them be dark…

…The air is damp and cold
and by now I am a little hungry…
The squirrel is high in the oak,
gone to his nest , and night has silenced

the last loud rupture of the calm.
~Jane Kenyon from “Frost Flowers”

 

Even when the load grows too heavy,
our misery rolling in like a fog that
covers all that was once vibrant,even then
even then
there waits a nest of nurture,
a place of calm
where we are fed
when we are tired and hungry.
We will be filled;
we will be restored.

 

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5 thoughts on “In the Dusk

  1. Yes, Emily!
    And sometimes, when the load becomes too heavy and we feel desolate and alone – like the rolling fog that you
    describe here – it is then that we are able to feel His Presence. He manifests it in ways that we do not always
    recognize. But He IS with us – in a dazzling display of His Creation, or sometimes by sending someone into
    our life who senses our pain and quietly reassures us by saying, “I am here if you need me.”

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  2. Yes, like Steve, I was transported by your words to the day of ultimate filling and restoration when “tired” and “hungry” will be antiquated terms that we’ve all forgotten.

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  3. I can’t help wondering what becomes of the solitary Monarchs one sees this time of the year/Too late to join the great migration south, too soon, by days, for beauty to expire/ Do they make a choice–stay and play or fly and die?/Either way, the end is near/ If I were choosing, I’d likely stay and lose myself among the maples/Still, there’s something to be said for companionship, no matter where it leads, regardless of the outcome/ Best, I guess, to just enjoy them while they flit about the yard/From Aster, to Anemone, to Late Rose rarely landing. “Late September (or Early November) Rarely Landing”

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