Poetry

Such Singing In The Wild Trees | a poem

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It was spring
and I finally heard him
among the first leaves––
then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness––
and that’s when it happened,

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree––
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing––
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfect blue sky–––all of them

were singing.
And, of course, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn’t last

For more than a few moments.
It’s one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you’ve been there,
you’re there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then––open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

-Mary Oliver

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M U D ::: Sensory Delight


Mud
by
Polly Chase Boyden

Mud is very nice to feel
All squishy-squash between the toes!
I’d rather wade in wiggly mud
Than smell a yellow rose.

It was a rainy Monday. Then the sun peeked through the clouds for a bright moment, she lit up.

“Mama, do you want to come and play in the mud!?”

Who can resist… We splashed and jumped, we oozed our toes through the gooey mud. We laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

We’re currently loving this song from our friends Dear Saint Isaac. Especially, when our darling belts it out. Enjoy!

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On Hope

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When dreams of living on land aren’t realized, I’m thankful for times we have to run and enjoy the glory of creation. For sunsets and laughter, for running free. For dreaming still, even when it feels hopeless. When it seems all is lost.

But as Emily Dickinson wrote,

“’Hope’ is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops – at all.”

At the beginning of Holy Week, I’m desperate for hope to come and make all things that were lost right again.

To redeem.

And as hard as it is in the face of so much brokenness, I will put my mustard-seed trust at His feet. Where my tears become prayers.

Whisper, “I believe, Father. Help me in my unbelief.”

Grace and peace.

Daddy’s and Daughters

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When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry

Poetry of light

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Poetry of Light 

Light finds us in our wandering.

Embraces us and draws us into her warmth.

In her, we–the found–become the seekers.

Seeking fellow wanderers, welcoming them into our newly found warmth.

Hope abounding. Joy overwhelming.