Its feathers shine

>>>>++<<<<

C o n t e m p l a t i o n   S t a t i o n

Bonaventure Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

>>>>++<<<<

The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor,

A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.

You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

> Wallace Stevens <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Wednesday

Nothing here is obsolete

>>>>++<<<<

F r e s h   O h   S o   F r e s h

Farmers Market

Matthews, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Everything here is yellow and green.
Listen to its throat, its earthskin,
the bone dry voices of the peepers
as they throb like advertisements.
The small animals of the woods
are carrying their deathmasks
into a narrow winter cave.
The scarecrow has plucked out
his two eyes like diamonds
and walked into the village.
The general and the postman
have taken off their packs.
This has all happened before
but nothing here is obsolete.
Everything here is possible.

Because of this
perhaps a young girl has laid down
her winter clothes and has casually
placed herself upon a tree limb
that hangs over a pool in the river.
She has been poured out onto the limb,
low above the houses of the fishes
as they swim in and out of her reflection
and up and down the stairs of her legs.
Her body carries clouds all the way home.
She is overlooking her watery face
in the river where blind men
come to bathe at midday.

Because of this
the ground, that winter nightmare,
has cured its sores and burst
with green birds and vitamins.
Because of this
the trees turn in their trenches
and hold up little rain cups
by their slender fingers.
Because of this
a woman stands by her stove
singing and cooking flowers.
Everything here is yellow and green.

Surely spring will allow
a girl without a stitch on
to turn softly in her sunlight
and not be afraid of her bed.
She has already counted seven
blossoms in her green green mirror.
Two rivers combine beneath her.
The face of the child wrinkles.
in the water and is gone forever.
The woman is all that can be seen
in her animal loveliness.
Her cherished and obstinate skin
lies deeply under the watery tree.
Everything is altogether possible
and the blind men can also see.

> Anne Sexton <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Tuesday

My heart's best treasure

>>>>++<<<<

F a c e   I t

Oakwood Cemetery

Raleigh, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Surprised by joy -- impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport -- Oh! with whom
But Thee, long buried in the silent Tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind --
But how could I forget thee? -- Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss! -- That thought’s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

> William Wordsworth <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday

Freely forever

>>>>++<<<<

C r o w n e d   C r o s s

St. Helena's Parish Church Cemetery

Beaufort, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

One day when heaven was filled with His praises

One day when sin was as black as could be

Jesus came forth to be born of a virgin

Dwelt among men, my example is He.

Living He loved me, dying he saved me

Buried He carried my sins far away

Rising He justified, freely forever

One day He's coming, O glorious day!

One day they led Him up Calvary's mountain

One day they nailed Him to die on the tree

Suffering anguish, despised and rejected

Bearing our sins, my Redeemer is He.

One day they left Him alone in the garden

One day He rested, from suffering free

Angels came down o'er His tomb to keep vigil

Hope of the hopeless, my Savior is He.

One day the grave could conceal Him no longer

One day the stone rolled away from the door

Then He arose, over death He had conquered

Now is ascended, my Lord evermore.

One day the trumpet will sound for His coming

One day the skies with His glories will shine

Wonderful day, my beloved ones bringing

Glorious Savior, this Jesus is mine.

Living He loved me, dying he saved me

Buried He carried my sins far away

Rising He justified, freely forever

One day He's coming, O glorious day!

> John Wilbur Chapman <

>>>>++<<<<

In the end of the sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week,

came Mary Magdalen and the other Mary to see the sepulchre.

And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord

descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone

from the door, and sat upon it.

His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow:

And for fear of him the keepers did shake, and became as dead men.

And the angel answered and said unto the women, Fear not ye:

for I know that ye seek Jesus, which was crucified.

He is not here: for he is risen, as he said.

Come, see the place where the Lord lay.

And go quickly, and tell his disciples that he is risen from the dead;

and, behold, he goeth before you into Galilee; there shall ye see him:

lo, I have told you.

And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear

and great joy; and did run to bring his disciples word.

And as they went to tell his disciples, behold, Jesus met them,

saying, All hail. And they came and held him by the feet,

and worshipped him.

Matthew 28:1-9

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Sunday

Raised softly to the ceilings

>>>>++<<<<

I f   Y o u   B u i l d   I t

Rose Hill Cemetery

Macon, Georgia

>>>>++<<<<

I would not paint -- a picture --

I'd rather be the One

Its bright impossibility

To dwell -- delicious -- on --

And wonder how the fingers feel

Whose rare -- celestial -- stir --

Evokes so sweet a Torment --

Such sumptuous -- Despair --

I would not talk, like Cornets --

I'd rather be the One

Raised softly to the Ceilings --

And out, and easy on --

Through Villages of Ether --

Myself endued Balloon

By but a lip of Metal --

The pier to my Pontoon --

Nor would I be a Poet --

It's finer -- own the Ear --

Enamored -- impotent -- content --

The License to revere,

A privilege so awful

What would the Dower be,

Had I the Art to stun myself

With Bolts of Melody!

> Emily Dickinson <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Saturday

I stay my haste

>>>>++<<<<

W e l c o m e

Old Sheldon Church Ruins

Yemassee, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it hath sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.

> John Burroughs <

>>>>++<<<<

Dedicated to the memory of

Mary Elizabeth Cassidy Sandifer

October 15, 1918 - April 6, 1981

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Friday

The heart must pause to breathe

>>>>++<<<<

C h a i n e d

Vintage Wedding Dress Detail

Columbia, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

So, we'll go no more a-roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a-roving

By the light of the moon.

> George Gordon, Lord Byron <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Thursday

Anxious of eternity

>>>>++<<<<

A   N e w   G r e e n   D e a l

Harry Easterling Bridge

Peak, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?
'Tis nature's prophesy that such will be,
And everything seems struggling to explain
The close sealed volume of its mystery.
Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
As seeming anxious of eternity,
To meet that calm and find a resting place.
E'en the small violet feels a future power
And waits each year renewing blooms to bring,
And surely man is no inferior flower
To die unworthy of a second spring?

> John Clare <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Wednesday

I know what I know

>>>>++<<<<

P a r a l l a x   V i e w i n g

Green Mount Cemetery

Baltimore, Maryland

>>>>++<<<<

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

> Edna St. Vincent Millay <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Tuesday

Put it in the soul calculator

>>>>++<<<<

I r i s   Y o u   W e r e   H e r e

Purple Petals

Columbia, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Until I find a name
I will not put it in the soul calculator
I will leave it free and open and unnamed
And not limit my expectations for the kind of person
That goes in one direction of the wind
I will keep all lines of the wind open
And place all my days free and empty
And re-envision what it means to be unencumbered
Or bereft
Not crying but the expanse of numbers
That go beyond the grave to what is left
And it may be true
I said it could be true
That the sunny days do stick to walls
And then enter you
It may be true that the purple bells do chime
Everyday you let them
It may be true that the sweet juice
I put across my lips would not be my last
But that the nights could get better and better
Until the evil is banished until the day
When the sun would crush it anyway
It was true without a set of things like letters
It was true the air was free and open
And I saw things as they were
Without violence
For the first time

> Dorothea Lasky <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday :: Happy April