August 2010 Archives

A late walk by Robert Frost

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When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of withered weeds Is sadder than any words A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rattling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you. 
 - Posted from my iPhone

Morning Song by Marcia F. Brown

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Here, I place
a blue glazed cup
where the wood
is slightly whitened.
Here, I lay down
two bright spoons,
our breakfast saucers, napkins
white and smooth as milk.

I am stirring at the sink,
I am stirring
the amount of dew
you can gather in two hands,
folding it into the fragile
quiet of the house.
v Before the eggs,
before the coffee
heaving like a warm cat,
I step out to the feeder-
one foot, then the other,
alive on wet blades.
Air lifts my gown - I might fly - 

This thistle seed I pour 
is for the tiny birds.
This ritual,
for all things frail
and imperiled.
Wings surround me, frothing
the air. I am struck
by what becomes holy.

A woman
who lost her teenage child
to an illness without mercy,
said that at the end, her daughter
sat up in her hospital bed
and asked:
What should I do?
What should I do?

Into a white enamel bath
I lower four brown eggs.
You fill the door frame,
warm and rumpled, kiss
the crown of my head.
I know how the topmost leaves
of dusty trees
feel at the advent 
of the monsoon rains.

I carry the woman with the lost child
in my pocket, where she murmurs
her love song without end:
           Just this, each day:
           Bear yourself up on small wings
           to receive what is given.
           Feed one another
           with such tenderness,
           it could almost be an answer.

My father always said, "early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, 
wealthy and wise." it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house 
and we were up at dawn to the smell of coffee, 
frying bacon and scrambled eggs. 
my father followed this general routine for a lifetime 
and died young, broke, and, I think, not too wise. 
taking note, I rejected his advice and it became, 
for me, 
late to bed and late to rise. 
now, I'm not saying that I've conquered the world 
but I've avoided numberless early traffic jams, 
bypassed some common pitfalls 
and have met some strange, 
wonderful people
one of whom was myself--someone my father never knew

 - Posted from my iPhone

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