A silent chorus

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U n f l i n c h i n g

Laurel Grove Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

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When the winter wind
moves through the ash trees
in my yard I hear
the past years calling
in the pale voices
of the air. The words,
caught in the branches,
echo a moment
before they fade out.
The wind calms, the trees
go back to being
merely trees and not
seven messengers
from another world,
if that's what they were.
The alder, older,
harbors a few leaves
from last fall, black, curled,
a silent chorus
for all those we've left
behind. Suddenly
at my back I feel
a new wind come on,
chilling, relentless,
with all the power
of loss, the meaning
unmistakable.

= Phillip Levine =

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Happy Monday

A fresh and solemn splendor

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F l o w e r   P o w e r

Bonaventure Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

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Still, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh
When the bird waketh, and the shadows flee
Fairer than morning, lovelier than daylight
Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with Thee.

Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows
The solemn hush of nature newly born
Alone with Thee in breathless adoration
In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.

As in the dawning o’er the waveless ocean
The image of the morning star doth rest
So in the stillness Thou beholdest only
Thine image in the waters of my breast.

Still, still with Thee, as to each newborn morning
A fresh and solemn splendor still is given
So does this blessèd consciousness, awaking
Breathe each day nearness unto Thee and Heaven.

When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber
Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer
Sweet the repose beneath the wings o’ershading
But sweeter still to wake and find Thee there.

So shall it be at last, in that bright morning
When the soul waketh and life’s shadows flee
O in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning
Shall rise the glorious thought, I am with Thee.

= Harriet Beecher Stowe =

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Abide in me, and I in you.

As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself,

except it abide in the vine;

no more can ye, except ye abide in me.

John 15:4

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Happy Sunday

Unto the Everlasting Spring

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C l a r i t y

Laurel Grove Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

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No Notice gave She, but a Change --

No Message, but a Sigh --

For Whom, the Time did not suffice

That She should specify.

She was not warm, though Summer shone

Nor scrupulous of cold

Though Rime by Rime, the steady Frost

Upon Her Bosom piled --

Of shrinking ways -- she did not fright

Though all the Village looked --

But held Her gravity aloft --

And met the gaze -- direct --

And when adjusted like a Seed

In careful fitted Ground

Unto the Everlasting Spring

And hindered but a Mound

Her Warm return, if so she chose --

And We -- imploring drew --

Removed our invitation by

As Some She never knew --

= Emily Dickinson =

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Dedicated to the memory

of

Letha Marie Snodgrass

on what would have been her twentieth birthday

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Happy Saturday

Watching at the end

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S p l i t   P e r s o n a l i t y

Near the Riverfront

Savannah, Georgia

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Some of what we do, we do

to make things happen,

the alarm to wake us up, the coffee to perc,

the car to start.

The rest of what we do, we do

trying to keep something from doing something,

the skin from aging, the hoe from rusting,

the truth from getting out.

With yes and no like the poles of a battery

powering our passage through the days,

we move, as we call it, forward,

wanting to be wanted,

wanting not to lose the rain forest,

wanting the water to boil,
wanting not to have cancer,
wanting to be home by dark,
wanting not to run out of gas,
as each of us wants the other
watching at the end,

as both want not to leave the other alone,
as wanting to love beyond this meat and bone,
we gaze across breakfast and pretend.

= Miller Williams =

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Happy Friday

Out where the seagulls cry

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W e a t h e r   E y e   O n   T h e   H o r i z o n

Harbour Town

Hilton Head Island, South Carolina

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I have a need of gulls again and their flying

Over the foam-white acres of the sea

Where the sunrise drifts like a fleet of ships afire,

And the dark like eternity.

I have a need for the yellow sea oat's music

And the single salty note

Curled in the palm of a shell as pale as the sigh

In a sandpiper's throat.

Too long the city has housed me and fed me its fare,

Too long I have run with the crowd;

I have a need to be free again like the gulls,

To bathe my face in the cool white peace of a cloud.

I have a need to lie at length on the sands,

To unshoulder my burdens out where the seagulls cry,

And to all of my heart's dark questions unanswered

Hear the white answers they write in the sky.

= Daniel Whitehead Hicky =

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Happy Thursday