A river somewhere

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Y a   G o t t a   H a v e   H e a r t

Front Yard

Columbia, South Carolina

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IN THE MORNING, BEFORE ANYTHING BAD HAPPENS

The sky is open

all the way.

Workers upright on the line

like spokes.

I know there is a river somewhere,

lit, fragrant, golden mist, all that,

whose irrepressible birds

can't believe their luck this morning

and every morning.

I let them riot

in my mind a few minutes more

before the news comes.

> Molly Brodak <

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Happy Wednesday

I keep saying hurry

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S l o w   D o w n

Dagny on the Harry Easterling Bridge

Peak, South Carolina

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We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store

and the gas station and the green market and

Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,

as she runs along two or three steps behind me

her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.

Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?

To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?

Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,

Honey I'm sorry I keep saying Hurry --

you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.

And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking

back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,

hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.

> Marie Howe <

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Happy Tuesday

God's love so sure

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P i n k l y   P u r e

Irmo Town Park

Irmo, South Carolina

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The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell.
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.

When years of time shall pass away,
And earthly thrones and kingdoms fall,
When men, who here refuse to pray,
On rocks and hills and mountains call,
God’s love so sure, shall still endure,
All measureless and strong;
Redeeming grace to Adam’s race --
The saints’ and angels’ song.

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.

O love of God, how rich and pure!

How measureless and strong!

It shall forever more endure

The saints' and angels' song.

> Frederick M. Lehman <

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But God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us,

even when we were dead in sins, hath quickened us together with Christ,

(by grace ye are saved;) and hath raised us up together,

and made us sit together in heavenly places in Christ Jesus:

that in the ages to come he might shew the exceeding riches

of his grace in his kindness toward us through Christ Jesus.

Ephesians 2:4-7

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Happy Sunday

When nature's laugh is done

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P e t a l s   o f   R e p o s e

Magnolia Cemetery

Augusta, Georgia

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The murmuring of Bees, has ceased

But murmuring of some

Posterior, prophetic,

Has simultaneous come.

The lower metres of the Year

When Nature's laugh is done

The Revelations of the Book

Whose Genesis was June.

Appropriate Creatures to her change

The Typic Mother sends

As Accent fades to interval

With separating Friends

Till what we speculate, has been

And thoughts we will not show

More intimate with us become

Than Persons, that we know.

> Emily Dickinson <

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Happy Saturday

The cerulean above

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S k y r i s

Back Yard

Columbia, South Carolina

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Warble me now for joy of lilac-time, (returning in reminiscence,)
Sort me O tongue and lips for Nature's sake, souvenirs of earliest summer,
Gather the welcome signs, (as children with pebbles or stringing shells,)
Put in April and May, the hylas croaking in the ponds, the elastic air,
Bees, butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes,
Blue-bird and darting swallow, nor forget the high-hole flashing his
golden wings,
The tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor,
Shimmer of waters with fish in them, the cerulean above,
All that is jocund and sparkling, the brooks running,
The maple woods, the crisp February days and the sugar-making,
The robin where he hops, bright-eyed, brown-breasted,
With musical clear call at sunrise, and again at sunset,
Or flitting among the trees of the apple-orchard, building the nest
of his mate,
The melted snow of March, the willow sending forth its yellow-green sprouts,
For spring-time is here! the summer is here! and what is this in it
and from it?
Thou, soul, unloosen'd -- the restlessness after I know not what;
Come, let us lag here no longer, let us be up and away!
O if one could but fly like a bird!
O to escape, to sail forth as in a ship!
To glide with thee O soul, o'er all, in all, as a ship o'er the waters;
Gathering these hints, the preludes, the blue sky, the grass, the
morning drops of dew,
The lilac-scent, the bushes with dark green heart-shaped leaves,
Wood-violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence,
Samples and sorts not for themselves alone, but for their atmosphere,
To grace the bush I love -- to sing with the birds,
A warble for joy of returning in reminiscence.

> Walt Whitman <

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Happy Friday