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

Sunday, September 14, 2014

"another window to wash our faces in"

Hilda Morley

Taste of salt on my fingers,
                                           that’s how
I like it:
               the line of sea rising
above the dark-green pine,
                                           the sea meeting
the horizon,
                     so always the eyes are lifted higher,
                     the pulse buoyed upward
with them
                  So it
should be for us all—
                                  to belong to
whatever moves us outward into
the wideness, for journeying,
                                              tales of
distant places,
                        treasures piled
                        to fill our smiling,
                                                       for us to know of
along the travelled coastline,
                                           the mountains
we can climb to,
                           each port,
                                           each harbor
another window to wash our faces in,
                                                         pull us
               & made for us,   made for
all of us,
                as the birds know, who
fly the continents,   the oceans
for their secret reasons,
                                     a map of the earth
written inside their bodies,
under their breastbones:   
                                       a continuance
of the now most fragile,         
                                        always travelled
patiently enduring world


  1. Replies
    1. yes, the birds and hilda morley. thanks nene:)


  2. " of the earth written inside their bodies..." Amazing truth here so beautifully written. I've been watching hummingbirds at my feeders for weeks, mesmerized by their numbers and the fact that they can fly 500 miles across the Gulf of Mexico. Holy, holy little beings of pure light, joy & sugar. :-) xo


"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))