It’s Earth that breathes around us,
so perilous in its comforts,
so perfect in impermanence.
Autumnal sun streams through
these yellow maple leaves
translucent as stained glass.
The ground beneath my feet
is strewn with pine cones, acorns.
The random pattern of continuance.
Etched columns of pine and oak.
Incense of resin and fungi.
Great glacial stones for altars.
High winds and choirs of
minor breezes, the whispering hush.
It is the Sabbath. It is enough.
Dolores Stewart (Riccio), from The Nature of Things
This morning's poem is printed here with the kind permission of the late poet. Dolores was my friend, and I miss her.
1 comment:
Love this. Loved Dolores. Love you.
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