The solitary habit

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L i q u i d   A s s e t s

Green-Wood Cemetery

Brooklyn, New York

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All winter
the blue heron
slept among the horses.
I do not know
the custom of herons,
do not know
if the solitary habit
is their way,
or if he listened for
some missing one --
not knowing even
that was what he did --
in the blowing
sounds in the dark.
I know that
hope is the hardest
love we carry.
He slept
with his long neck
folded, like a letter
put away.

= Jane Hirshfield =

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Happy Monday

The promise is not vain

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A n g e l   C r o s s i n g

Grove Street Cemetery

New Haven, Connecticut

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O Love that will not let me go

I rest my weary soul in Thee

I give Thee back the life I owe

That in Thine ocean depths its flow

May richer, fuller be.

O Light that foll'west all my way

I yield my flick'ring torch to Thee

My heart restores its borrowed ray

That in Thy sunshine blaze its day

May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain

I cannot close my heart to Thee

I trace the rainbow through the rain

And feel the promise is not vain

That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head

I dare not ask to fly from Thee

I lay in dust life's glory dead

And from the ground there blossoms red

Life that shall endless be.

= Geoge Matheson =

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The LORD thy God in the midst of thee is mighty;

he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy;

he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.

= Zephaniah 3:17 =

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Happy Sunday

I who was almost bold

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P a t i e n c e   i s   a   V i r t u e

Kensico Cemetery

Valhalla, New York

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How happy I was if I could forget

To remember how sad I am

Would be an easy adversity

But the recollecting of Bloom

Keeps making November difficult

Till I who was almost bold

Lose my way like a little Child

And perish in the cold.

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Saturday

The spring will be a harvest-time

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I   F e e l   A   C h i l l

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery

Sleepy Hollow, New York

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WHAT THE THRUSH SAID

O Thou whose face hath felt the Winter’s wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops ’mong the freezing stars,
To thee the spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when Phœbus was away,
To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At the thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.

= John Keats =

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Happy Friday :: Happy November