Such sumptuous despair

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I f   Y o u   B u i l d   I t

Rose Hill Cemetery

Macon, Georgia

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I would not paint -- a picture --

I'd rather be the One

Its bright impossibility

To dwell -- delicious -- on --

And wonder how the fingers feel

Whose rare -- celestial -- stir --

Evokes so sweet a Torment --

Such sumptuous -- Despair --

I would not talk, like Cornets --

I'd rather be the One

Raised softly to the Ceilings --

And out, and easy on --

Through Villages of Ether --

Myself endued Balloon

By but a lip of Metal --

The pier to my Pontoon --

Nor would I be a Poet --

It's finer -- own the Ear --

Enamored -- impotent -- content --

The License to revere,

A privilege so awful

What would the Dower be,

Had I the Art to stun myself

With Bolts of Melody!

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Saturday

The boundaries of thought

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I   T h i n k   T h e r e f o r e   I   A m

Allegheny Cemetery

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

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A woman walks by the bench I’m sitting on
with her dog that looks part Lab, part Buick,
stops and asks if I would like to dance.
I smile, tell her of course I do. We decide
on a waltz that she begins to hum.

We spin and sway across the street in between
parked cars and I can tell she realizes
she chose a man who understands the rhythm
of sand, the boundaries of thought. We glide
and Fred and Ginger might come to mind or
a breeze filled with the scent of flowers of your choice.
Coffee stops flowing as a waitress stares out the window
of a diner while I lead my partner back across the street. 

When we come to the end of our dance,
we compliment each other and to repay the favor
I tell her to be careful since the world comes to an end
three blocks to the east of where we stand. Then
I remind her as long as there is a ’59 Cadillac parked
somewhere in a backyard between here and Boise
she will dance again.

As she leaves content with her dog, its tail wagging
like gossip, I am convinced now more than ever
that I once held hundreds of roses in my hands
the first time I cut open a pomegranate.

= Kevin Pilkington =

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Happy Friday

Souls of flower strike

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Y e l l o w   T h e r e

Back Garden

Columbia, South Carolina

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i have found what you are like
the rain,

(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned

newfragile yellows

lurch and.press

-in the woods
which
stutter
and

sing

And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss

= e. e. cummings =

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Happy Thursday

Alertness is the hidden discipline

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S h e e p i s h

Beulah United Methodist Church Cemetery

Gilbert, South Carolina

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Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice. You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the
conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

= David Whyte =

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Happy Wednesday

Let this light bless you

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Y o u   C a n   S e e   F o r e v e r

Allegheny Cemetery

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

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Today when persimmons ripen
Today when fox-kits come out of their den into snow
Today when the spotted egg releases its wren song
Today when the maple sets down its red leaves
Today when windows keep their promise to open
Today when fire keeps its promise to warm
Today when someone you love has died
or someone you never met has died
Today when someone you love has been born
or someone you will not meet has been born
Today when rain leaps to the waiting of roots in their dryness
Today when starlight bends to the roofs of the hungry and tired
Today when someone sits long inside his last sorrow
Today when someone steps into the heat of her first embrace
Today, let this light bless you
With these friends let it bless you
With snow-scent and lavender bless you
Let the vow of this day keep itself wildly and wholly
Spoken and silent, surprise you inside your ears
Sleeping and waking, unfold itself inside your eyes
Let its fierceness and tenderness hold you
Let its vastness be undisguised in all your days

= Jane Hirshfield =

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Happy Tuesday