September 25, 2006
Read The Lost Son this morning, Theodore Roethke. The mysticism of it enchanted me though I did not understand one word…except: A lively understandable spirit / Once entertained you. / It will come again. / Be still. / Wait. Then I went out to snip the roses, pinch off the black spotted leaves, deadhead the marigolds. In the cool morning, the secondary rain running off the cherry limbs felt like ice down the back of the spine…so I wait for the goose-skin thrill of the enchanting presence heralded by the wren call. (I have found it again! / What? Eternity. / In the whirling light / Of the sun in the sea.)
The lawn has become a nearly perfected patch of repose with the rain and the sun throughout the summer, a joyful rest that brings a slight up-turn to my lips and wrinkles the eyes in a Zen of quiescence I created (Give me enough time in this place / And I will surely make a beautiful thing). Beneath the dogwood the blue hydrangea reblooms surrounded by a sea of pink and fuscia impatiens dripping from yesterday’s rain, clashing with the orange of the house.
That’s my morning start. I go back and read what I wrote the 13th of the month, and realize my idiotic redundancy…of the yard, the season, my tunneled perception, the narrowness of my life, its poverty. The pineapple sage with its magnificent red wings has just begun to soar 4’ above its annual cousins the salvia so enticing as it is to the rubies that buzz my head.
Read The Lost Son this morning, Theodore Roethke. The mysticism of it enchanted me though I did not understand one word…except: A lively understandable spirit / Once entertained you. / It will come again. / Be still. / Wait. Then I went out to snip the roses, pinch off the black spotted leaves, deadhead the marigolds. In the cool morning, the secondary rain running off the cherry limbs felt like ice down the back of the spine…so I wait for the goose-skin thrill of the enchanting presence heralded by the wren call. (I have found it again! / What? Eternity. / In the whirling light / Of the sun in the sea.)
The lawn has become a nearly perfected patch of repose with the rain and the sun throughout the summer, a joyful rest that brings a slight up-turn to my lips and wrinkles the eyes in a Zen of quiescence I created (Give me enough time in this place / And I will surely make a beautiful thing). Beneath the dogwood the blue hydrangea reblooms surrounded by a sea of pink and fuscia impatiens dripping from yesterday’s rain, clashing with the orange of the house.
That’s my morning start. I go back and read what I wrote the 13th of the month, and realize my idiotic redundancy…of the yard, the season, my tunneled perception, the narrowness of my life, its poverty. The pineapple sage with its magnificent red wings has just begun to soar 4’ above its annual cousins the salvia so enticing as it is to the rubies that buzz my head.
posted by Dafath at 6:10 AM
2 Comments:
No, not redundancy at all. Coming back to the same place and knowing it, for the first time, all over again. Morning Glories. Indeed.
How did I miss this? I guess I though you had given up on the blog and gone to a web page.
'(Give me enough time in this place / And I will surely make a beautiful thing). '
me too although I seem to need a tremendous amt of time.
Beautiful Al Bear. I love hydrangeas.
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