dailynewsnblog
See, now they vanish,
The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,
To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”
The afternoon sun is bright,
the air trafficked with distant noises.
Be still now.
On this grassy knoll.
Listen.
A stirring.
The sky bending low.
Blades of grass rising with dandelion heads.
Stray geese whose beaks dip in salutation.
Mere minutes before a sudden squall had drenched
with petrichor ardor, sent me hugging a tree.
Now, my feet squelch forward.
Nothing is grand. But breath itself.
I’ve been here before. An island
balanced. Shedding emotion. Finding
communion. Feeling the earth turn
beneath my feet.
The sentient wonder of the place.
Each moment transfixing. Each time
a passage. A sublime intermingling
of memory and promise.
A school bus turns the corner into the street
below and stops. Its door yawns open
and a small figure descends. Races home.
A raindrop scouts a distant light, shimmers,
tracks a crooked path down my cheek.
Geese wheel overhead.
I watch, shading my eyes
as they arrive
one by one.
Home. They carry it with them.
Mine carries me.
Love. A presence and a hope.
Join us at dVerse Poetics:"Embodying a Landscape" where we're writing poetry to "incorporate a landscape or cityscape into [our] poetry that either mirrors or amplifies your interior landscape."
Image credit: Hajime Namiki Hotchi Cherry (2006), woodblock print 37.3 x 69.7 cm
