Go out into the weather-beaten worldwhere straw men lean on frozen fieldsand find the cardinal's scarlet flash of wing,a winter heart, a feathered hope.
Without a camera or a memory,we travel these old country roads,turn corners like the pages of a book,enchanted by the ordinary life
of fields and rocks and woods,of small wild creatures stirring in the brush.We take home pockets full of mythsand wonders seldom seen.
We will not give up easily,Across the breakfast tablein our precarious nest,we make those promises keep on going
that no one ever keeps. And yet...there is the cardinal again,a finial on our old gray fence.Red is for Valentines.
Dolores Stewart
This morning's poem is reprinted with permission from my friend Dolores Stewart's exquisite volume of poetry, The Nature of Things.
1 comment:
Thank you, Cate. I hadn't remembered reading this beautiful poem.
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