The mares go down for their evening feed into the meadow grass. Two pine trees sway the invisible wind— some sway, some don’t sway. The heart of the world lies open, leached and ticking with sunlight For just a minute or so. The mares have their heads on the ground, the trees have their heads on the blue sky. Two ravens circle and twist. On the borders of heaven, the river flows clear a bit longer. ~Charles Wright “The Evening is Tranquil, and Dawn is a Thousand Miles Away”
When I stroll in the fields on summer evenings,
the horses raise their heads in greeting,
still chewing, they walk up slowly from pasture
to follow me inside for the night.
They could choose not to leave the field,
to enjoy freedom all night under the stars outside,
yet they choose the walls and doors of the barn,
and joining with me when I call.
Come and go gently, my friends. Come and go gently.
And so will I.
Underneath the stars I’ll meet you Underneath the stars I’ll greet you There beneath the stars I’ll leave you Before you go of your own free will
Underneath the stars you met me Underneath the stars you left me I wonder if the stars regret me At least you’ll go of your own free will
Here beneath the stars I’m mending I’m here beneath the stars not ending Why on eartham I pretending? I’m here again, the stars befriending They come and go of their own free will
Go gently Go gently
Underneath the stars you met me And underneath the stars you left me I wonder if the stars regret me I’m sure they’d like me if they only met me They come and go of their own free will
Go gently ~Kate Rusby “Underneath the Stars”
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Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
~Gerard Manley Hopkins from “God’s Grandeur”
– let me yell for joy at what I have been given, at the blessedness that I have been afforded, at the long seasons of grace you have spun out for me
in a great summer taffy of a life. ~A.G. Harmon from patheos.com
What is all this juice and all this joy?
~Gerard Manley Hopkins from “Spring”
These summer mornings I awake in a Gerard Manley Hopkins landscape~
the young poet priest combined words in suspended rhythm,
recreating the world found outside our windows
entirely in our minds even when our eyes are closed.
What is this taffy-stretched joy I feel when witnessing
what must have moved him to write?
What can be more powerful
than words that awaken in us dawn’s redeeming light?
Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Thy beams, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou think?
Thou, sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world’s contracted thus. Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that’s done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.
~John Donne, from “The Sun Rising”
Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!
~William Wordsworth from “Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802”
“Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.” ~Emily Dickinson
I reluctantly leave behind our sun-drenched bed
to be launched back out into the world of work,
grateful for this place where we live and love
and where the unruly sun finds us drowsy in the wee dawn.
It is bliss to be warmed and soaked in such light,
to want to return to my pillow and you,
but knowing each day of waking and working and wanting
makes our rest a little later that much sweeter.
Suddenly a bee, big as a blackberry, bumbles against my window, knocking for attention. Rolling in azalea cups all morning, she weaves in slow motion then hovers like a helicopter, humming to herself. The key, C major. No black notes, no sharps, no flats. Only naturals—the fan of her own wings, the bliss of her own buzz.
She doesn’t practice. She doesn’t have to. She knows. To make honey, you follow the dance.
~Alice Friman from “The Key”
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom. ~Li-Young Lee from “From Blossoms”
These are impossible spring days of color and cool breezes.
A sense of immortality extends across the sky as far as the eye can see.
Impossibly impossible — because I know they won’t last;
this precious time is ephemeral.
Still I revel in it,
moving from joy to joy to joy,
winging like a bee’s buzz singing right on key,
from blossom to blossom,
hovering and settling briefly
and let down gently,
oh so gently,
into the promise
spring someday will last forever.
This is the best~~
heading with dogs and camera up the hill
on an early spring morning,
with nothing more than the hope
I can bring this magic back to the house
and preserve it long after the foglight evaporates,
the day moves on and distracted by life,
I’ve forgotten all about how
this is the best~~
Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come–
I regularly need reminding that what I offer up from my heart predicts what I will receive there.
If I’m grumbling and breaking like a dying vine instead of a vibrant green tree~~~
coming up empty and hollow with discouragement,
entangled in the cobwebs and mildew of worry,
only gobbling and grousing~~~
then no singing bird will come.
It is so much better to nurture the singers of joy and gladness with a heart budding green with grace and gratitude, anticipating and expectant.