Begin the hours of this day slow

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Y o u ' r e   F i r e d

Old Gray Cemetery

Knoxville, Tennessee

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O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.

= Robert Frost =

Happy Friday

Nothing remembers or grieves

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W e 'l l   A l w a y s   H a v e   K - T o w n

Jackson Street

Knoxville, Tennessee

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The Seine flows out of the mist

And into the mist again;

The trees lean over the water,

The small leaves fall like rain.

The leaves fall patiently,

Nothing remembers or grieves;

The river takes to the sea

The yellow drift of the leaves.

Milky and cold is the air,

The leaves float with the stream,

The river comes out of a sleep

And goes away in a dream.

= Sara Teasdale =

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Happy Thursday

What I love is near at hand

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T h e   L i g h t   B e y o n d

Old Gray Cemetery

Knoxville, Tennessee

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I have come to a still, but not a deep center,
A point outside the glittering current;
My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,
At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,
My mind moves in more than one place,
In a country half-land, half-water.
I am renewed by death, thought of my death,
The dry scent of a dying garden in September,
The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.
What I love is near at hand,
Always, in earth and air.

= Theodore Roethke =

Happy Wednesday

So let it be

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A   N u t   i s   a   F i n e   M e a l

Maryville College

Maryville, Tennessee

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It may indeed be phantasy, when I
Essay to draw from all created things
Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings;
And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie
Lessons of love and earnest piety.
So let it be; and if the wide world rings
In mock of this belief, it brings
Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity.
So will I build my altar in the fields,
And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,
And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields
Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,
Thee only God! and thou shalt not despise
Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice.

= Samuel Taylor Coleridge =

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Happy Tuesday

come again shining glance

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I   C a n ' t   P u t   M y   F i n g e r   O n   I t

Laurel Grove Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

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A child looking at ruins grows younger

but cold

and wants to wake to a new name

I have been younger in October

than in all the months of spring

walnut and may leaves the color

of shoulders at the end of summer

a month that has been to the mountain

and become light there

the long grass lies pointing uphill

even in death for a reason

that none of us knows

and the wren laughs in the early shade now

come again shining glance in your good time

naked air late morning

my love is for lightness

of touch foot feather

the day is yet one more yellow leaf

and without turning I kiss the light

by an old well on the last of the month

gathering wild rose hips

in the sun

= W.S. Merwin =

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Happy Monday