not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

here

It is only when you know it
that you know it
it is only when you've suffered
that you can celebrate
only when the pine holds meaning
only when you have stood beneath its boughs
in summer
light flooding out from the limbs
of this giant umbrella
only when the spring rain has plinked
and clung
and last minute declined its dance
only when the boughs like arms
have taken you in
to cut the wind's autumn's whip
only when you have stood beside
the quiet descent of winter's shoulders
laden white boughs
your arms, its arms
there being little difference,
only then will you know 
and then when you know
when you know it in your bones
when your blood adjusts
when your eyes receive
and you forget to fight
only then are you complete.













it has shadow
all day long 
it broods 
it warns 
and if you dare
it excites 
and when you are spent
it holds you
like a lover spooned

and then
you have it
and it has you.

5 comments:

  1. it's nothing i do. nothing at all. and yet it's all done, nothing left undone. god that's such a relief!

    this is like taking a journey inside the heart of the world, watching it work more perfectly than you ever imagined, without ever figuring out how, without ever feeling a need to.

    ReplyDelete
  2. sometimes there is
    being
    and nothing else:)

    xo
    erin

    ReplyDelete
  3. at ease and
    in the same moment in awe
    how you fit into it
    like an old plaid shirt
    handed down

    you are home

    ~robert

    ReplyDelete
  4. wonderful, robert!
    thank you!
    what more could a girl want
    but an old plaid shirt!

    i do believe though
    i could make my home
    many places
    but i suppose we are only OF
    one place.

    xo
    erin

    ReplyDelete
  5. i like this place
    these photograph and poems

    i am so very happy you have it
    for yet another side
    another layer of many
    that is you to explore
    and share.


    love,

    robert

    ReplyDelete

"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))