BY KENNETH REXROTH In the years to come they will say, “They fell like the leaves In the autumn of nineteen thirty-nine.” November has come to the forest, To the meadows where we picked the cyclamen. The year fades with the white frost On the brown sedge in the hazy meadows, Where the deer tracks were black in the morning. Ice forms in the shadows; Disheveled maples hang over the water; Deep gold sunlight glistens on the shrunken stream. Somnolent trout move through pillars of brown and gold. The yellow maple leaves eddy above them, The glittering leaves of the cottonwood, The olive, velvety alder leaves, The scarlet dogwood leaves, Most poignant of all. In the afternoon thin blades of cloud Move over the mountains; The storm clouds follow them; Fine rain falls without wind. The forest is filled with wet resonant silence. When the rain pauses the clouds Cling to the cliffs and the waterfalls. In the evening the wind changes; Snow falls in the sunset. We stand in the snowy twilight And watch the moon rise in a breach of cloud. Between the black pines lie narrow bands of moonlight, Glimmering with floating snow. An owl cries in the sifting darkness. The moon has a sheen like a glacier. "Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God. Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." Yesterday I was thinking about buying this book I saw about awareness but caught myself and thought instead, why don't I just be aware?
I never listen to headphones on walks--haven't done that since the 1980s when I lived in Boston in the midst of a crack epidemic. So it was dangerous. But I also want to hear and observe. So I did, observing the shifting light, the still vivid fallen leaves on dark green wet grass. I looked up at the trees, fading now, which I like. They're the dun colors I imagine Civil War widows dyed their dresses--butternut or walnut hues. Watching the shifting light of late afternoon as the tops of trees swayed I thought as I did when I was a child--we have so much beauty available all the time every day. The world's heart, God's heart, beats in the background while we run around, frenzied. You just have to be radical and stop. And watch. And hear. |
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May 2024
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