November 11, 2004
Tempering
A blue horizon, a slate foundation;
Little birdbath of meaning,
Searing sun of transition.
May we weep enough to fill
This bath for flocks to drink upon;
May they in the heat of change
Stretch their wings,
Worrilessly —
For hope is a thirsty, feathered thing;
And though stone under shower of sun
May crack, the sky pouring down
Always takes its weight back.
P.S. A nod especially to Dickinson , and also Camus .
P.P.S. Would you like to know what I mean by the sear of transition? I am talking in part about the Evil Empire . A nod to my friend Kellan for pointing out this link (and on his birthday, when one most deserves to be hopeful!)
Posted by Delire at November 11, 2004 07:30 PM
Hope comes in many shapes, including finding shared inspiration even in the blackest of statistics.
You're right that poems make wonderful gifts, in my family the most hotly contested gifts are poems, and at one point it turned a bit ugly when we had two births in rapid succession and Uncle Robert declared he could only write 1 poem for both welcomings. Personally the poems are a much more exciting reason to get married then the cookware.
Posted by: kellan at November 12, 2004 07:43 AM