Tuesday's poem: Lingering in Happiness by Mary Oliver

Lingering in Happiness

After rain after many days without rain,
it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,
and the dampness there, married now to gravity,
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground

where it will disappear -- but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share,
and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss;
a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel;

and soon as many small stone, buried for a thousand years,
will feel themselves being touched.

- Mary Oliver

Tuesday's poem: Some Things, Say the Wise Ones by Mary Oliver

Some Things, Say the Wise Ones

Some things, say the wise ones who know everything,
are not living. I say,
you live your life your way and leave me alone.

I have talked with the faint clouds in the sky when they
are afraid of being left behind; I have said, Hurry, hurry!
and they have said: thank you, we are hurrying.

About cows, and starfish, and roses, there is no
argument. They die, after all.

But water is a question, so many living things in it,
but what is it, itself, living or not? Oh, gleaming

generosity, how can they write you out?

As I think this I am sitting on the sand beside
the harbor. I am holding in my hand
small pieces of granite, pyrite, schist.
Each one, just now, so thoroughly asleep.

- Mary Oliver

Tuesday's poem: The Summer Day by Mary Oliver

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to knell down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

- Mary Oliver

Tuesday's poem: Why I Wake Early by Mary Oliver

Why I Wake Early

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crochety -

best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light -
good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.

- Mary Oliver

(above photo is from a recent visit to The Getty museum in Los Angeles. The gardens were in spectacular form during our visit.)

Tuesday's poem: Going Home (Burlington Route) by Willa Cather

Going Home
(Burlington Route)

How smoothly the trains run beyond the Missouri;
Even in my sleep I know when I have crossed
  the river.
The wheels turn as if they were glad to go;
The sharp curves and windings left behind,
The roadway wide open,
(The crooked straight
And the rough places plain.)

They run smoothly, they run softly, too.
There is not noise enough to trouble the lightest
  sleeper.
Nor jolting to wake the weary-hearted.
I open my window and let the air blow in,
The air of morning,
That smells of grass and earth -
Earth, the grain-giver.

How smoothly the trains run beyond the Missouri;
Even in my sleep I know when I have crossed
  the river.
The wheels turn as if they were glad to go;
They run like running water,
Like Youth, running away...
They spin bright along the bright rails,
Singing and humming,
Singing and humming,
They run remembering,
They run rejoicing,
As if they, too, were going home.

by Willa Cather

When I travel home, I do not take a train. The last leg of the journey is by ferry.
The 4 1/2 hour trip is the perfect way to slow down, reflect.
We have finally made our summer travel plans. I am looking forward to the ferry trip already. Below are some photos I took during my trip last fall.

Tuesday's poem: A Grace for Ice-Cream by Allan M. Laing

A Grace for Ice-Cream

For water-ices, cheap but good,
That find us in a thirsty mood;
For ices made of milk or cream
That slip down smoothly as a dream;
For cornets, sandwiches and pies
That make the gastric juices rise;
For ices bought in little shops
Or at the kerb from him who stops;
For chanting of the sweet refrain:
'Vanilla, strawberry or plain?'
  We thank Thee, Lord, who sendst with heat
  This cool deliciousness to eat.

by Allan M. Laing

Tuesday's poem: Prairie Dawn by Willa Cather

Prairie Dawn

A crimson fire that vanquishes the stars;
A pungent odor from the dusty sage;
A sudden stirring of the huddled herds;
A breaking of the distant table-lands
Through purple mists ascending, and the flare
Of water ditches silver in the light;
A swift, bright lance hurled low across the world;
A sudden sickness for the hills of home.

- Willa Cather

This May is hot and dry. We did not have enough rain and already the back hillside grass has turned yellow. Tonight I watched a hummingbird flit unsuccessfully through the tall weeds; the warm of the day carrying eucalyptus and jasmine fragrance through the neighborhood. (Nearby, on the patio, Harriet stalked lizards.)

I love how Cather connects the single line images with the heartsickness of home. I know Cather for her beautiful novels, but very recently learned she is a poet too. If you are unfamiliar with her works, I'd recommend her short stories ("Neighbor Rosicky" is my favorite) and her novel "My Antonia". I like to read her books because of the midwest settings. My mother grew up there and on nights like tonight, when the last bit of light filters across the golden hillside, I wonder if images like this would make her long "for the hills of home."

(For a view of what the hillside looked like in early spring, see here.)

Tuesday's poem: Work, Sometimes by Mary Oliver

Work, Sometimes

I was sad all day, and why not. There I was, books piled
on both sides of the table, paper stacked up, words
falling off my tongue.

The robins had been a long time singing, and now it
was beginning to rain.

What are we sure of? Happiness isn't a town on a map,
or an early arrival, or a job well done, but good work
ongoing. Which is not likely to be the trifling around
with a poem.

Then it began raining hard, and the flowers in the yard
were full of lively fragrance.

You have had days like this, no doubt. And wasn't it
wonderful, finally, to leave the room? Ah, what a
moment!

As for myself, I swung the door open. And there was
the wordless, singing world. And I ran for my life.

- Mary Oliver

When I was visiting Seattle in March, I woke up to snow! It was the loveliest gray morning and while the snow was not sticking to the ground, big fluffy flakes fell for a good 30 minutes. My sisters little grape hyacinth plant bravely made it through the onslaught. Such is the perseverance of spring.

Tuesday's poem: let it go by e.e. cummings

let it go-the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise-let it go it
was sworn to
                     go

let them go-the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers-you must let them go they
were born
                to go

let all go-the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things-let all go
dear
       so comes love

- e.e. cummings