And this I remember

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M e m o r i e s   R   U s

Times Square 2011

New York, New York

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Early is the evening,
Reluctant the dawn;
Once there was summer;
Sudden it was gone.
It fell like a leaf,
Whirled downstream.
Was there ever summer,
Or only a dream?
Was ever a world
That was not November?
Once there was summer,
And this I remember

Cornflowers and daisies,
Buttercups and clover,
Black-eyed Susans and Queen-Anne's lace,
A wide green meadow,
And bees booming over,
And a little laughing girl with the wind in her face.

Strident are the voices
And hard lights shine;
Feral are the faces;
Is one of them mine?
Something is lost now,
Tarnished the gleam;
Was there ever nobleness,
Or only a dream?
Yes, and it lingers,
Lost not yet;
Something remains
Till this I forget

Cornflowers and clover,
Buttercups and daisies,
Black-eyed Susans under blue and white skies
And the grass waist high
Where the red cow grazes,
And a little laughing girl with faith in her eyes.

= Ogden Nash =

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Happy Thursday

Wild and perfect for a moment

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F a i r y   W o n d e r f u l

Aimwell Cemetery

Ridgeway, South Carolina

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This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open --
pools of lace,
white and pink --
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities --
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again --
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?

= Mary Oliver =

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Happy Wednesday

The prevailing delicate

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R a y s   T h e   R o o f

From the Pool :: July 2015

Columbia, South Carolina

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The fervent heat, but so much more endurable in this pure air -- the white and pink pond-blossoms, with great heart-shaped leaves; the glassy waters of the creek, the banks, with dense bushery, and the picturesque beeches and shade and turf; the tremulous, reedy call of some bird from recesses, breaking the warm, indolent, half-voluptuous silence; an occasional wasp, hornet, honey-bee or bumble (they hover near my hands or face, yet annoy me not, nor I them, as they appear to examine, find nothing, and away they go) -- the vast space of the sky overhead so clear, and the buzzard up there sailing his slow whirl in majestic spirals and discs; just over the surface of the pond, two large slate-color'd dragon-flies, with wings of lace, circling and darting and occasionally balancing themselves quite still, their wings quivering all the time, (are they not showing off their amusement?) -- the pond itself, with the sword-shaped calamus; the water snakes -- occasionally a flitting blackbird, with red dabs on his shoulders, as he darts slantingly by -- the sounds that bring out the solitude, warmth, light and shade -- the quawk of some pond duck -- (the crickets and grasshoppers are mute in the noon heat, but I hear the song of the first cicadas;) -- then at some distance the rattle and whirr of a reaping machine as the horses draw it on a rapid walk through a rye field on the opposite side of the creek -- (what was the yellow or light-brown bird, large as a young hen, with short neck and long-stretch'd legs I just saw, in flapping and awkward flight over there through the trees?) -- the prevailing delicate, yet palpable, spicy, grassy, clovery perfume to my nostrils; and over all, encircling all, to my sight and soul, the free space of the sky, transparent and blue -- and hovering there in the west, a mass of white-gray fleecy clouds the sailors call "shoals of mackerel" -- the sky, with silver swirls like locks of toss'd hair, spreading, expanding -- a vast voiceless, formless simulacrum -- yet may-be the most real reality and formulator of everything -- who knows?

= Walt Whitman =

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Happy Tuesday

In a blue cloud-cloth

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S t r e e t w i s e

Society Street Entryway

Charleston, South Carolina

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Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamers,
Bring me all of your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.

= Langston Hughes =

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Happy Monday

And all the joys I have

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K e e p i n g   T h e   F a i t h

Elmwood Cemetery

Charlotte, North Carolina

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Majestic sweetness sits enthroned
Upon the Savior’s brow;
His head with radiant glories crowned,
His lips with grace o’erflow.

Survey the beauties of His face,
And on His glories dwell;
Think of the wonders of His grace,
And all His triumphs tell.

No mortal can with Him compare
Among the sons of men;
Fairer is He than all the fair
Who fill the heav’nly train.

He saw me plunged in deep distress
And flew to my relief;
For me He bore the shameful cross
And carried all my grief.

His hand a thousand blessings pours
Upon my guilty head:
His presence gilds my darkest hours,
And guards my sleeping bed.

To Him I owe my life and breath
And all the joys I have;
He makes me triumph over death
And saves me from the grave.

To Heav’n, the place of His abode,
He brings my weary feet;
Shows me the glories of my God,
And makes my joys complete.

Since from His bounty I receive
Such proofs of love divine,
Had I a thousand hearts to give,
Lord, they should all be Thine.

= Samuel Stennett =

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Bless the LORD, O my soul.

O LORD my God, thou art very great;

thou art clothed with honour and majesty.

Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment:

who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain:

Who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters:

who maketh the clouds his chariot:

who walketh upon the wings of the wind:

Who maketh his angels spirits; his ministers a flaming fire:

Who laid the foundations of the earth,

that it should not be removed for ever.

Psalm 104:1-5

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Happy Sunday