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Sweetness and Light
More of the Natural World
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The Light that Inspires

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Starry
 
I wish I could wear a cloak made out of the country sky.
Then when the moon is full I would be so bright and beautiful
no one could deny my worth,
and when the moon waned or hid behind dark clouds
no one would see me, to comment on my wasteful moods.
I wish I could have hair like emptiness
like the space between my eyes and the stars
I sometimes feel it pressing on my face as I stare up
and wonder how far I must jump to pass through it,
and then when my head lay flat on a lover's chest
he would feel my soul, he would see my mind
and still wonder what it meant.
I wish i could write words
that explain what it is like to sit on a cracked cement step
to smoke a glowing orange fire and contemplate
the rustlings of cattle out in the darkness.
To give a sense of that smell only farms seem to posess
the mix of life and death,
the energy, still passing, from beagles chasing rabbits
in the sun,
and the fading buzz of wasps and bumblebees
taking care of whatever business they are about,
but I don't think I can.
I'm just a city girl after all,
and my sight when I open eyes into that vast
void of what is known as nature,
is too jaded by the thick exhaust still lingering in worn lungs,
and my ears are so crowded by the sirens of night,
the murmers of crabby children,
and the footsteps of strangers,
that I cannot hear the dreams of coyotes in the wood.
I'm just a city girl.
I cannot hear that far.

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The Beacon

In the dimly lit shadows of our piney woods,
where the trees sing softly at the touch of
our hands, lies the answer to the questions
that drag upon our minds and call us to forget
the loveliness we've always had and will not
lose.  In trails long hewn and planted with
lovely seeds of greenery the sun spills drops
upon our faces as we walk.  No words will spend
the time we've found for our renewal.  We are
whole now because we are on our roots.  In land
that holds the memories of our childhood smiles
and tears long forgotten we can hear the voice
of wisdom too long gone now, and remember hard
hands that lifted our soul and promised our
lives to the paradise of our potential.  He is
always there, still, on these lonely walks, when
we never are alone, and he calls us to remember.
Always remember how much love has gone into our
making.

The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.
e. e. cummings