February 2015


Thorn-92[1]

 

thorn

In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread:
you put this rather beautifully,
and gave me leave to sing my work
until my work became the song.

In sorrow shalt thou eat of it:
a line on which a man might ring
the changes as he tills the ground
from which he was taken. Thistle, thorn

(in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed),
these too shall it bring forth to thee,
all the days of thy life till the end,
the synagogue of the ear of corn.

Poem and plowman cleave the dark.
One can’t eat art. But dust is art,
and unto dust shall I return.
O let my song become my work.

Amanda Jernigan, Adam’s Prayer

 

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mGGwqxa[1]

 

what we need is here

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

Wendell Berry

t0220pablo2_feat1_1[1]

 

On my last birthday I was ninety-three years old. That is not young, of course.

In fact, it is older than ninety. But age is a relative matter.

If you continue to work and to absorb the beauty in the world about you, you find that age does not necessarily mean getting old.

At least, not in the ordinary sense.

I feel many things more intensely than ever before, and for me life grows more fascinating.