Crying Morning

[greenstorm]

But that's a good thing. The rain is gentle, like a cradle or an embrace, and I'll be out in it today. I'm being held and comforted by something bigger and more impersonal than I. Tea from my thermos on a day like this is a very human warmth, and it brings me home into myself.

Last night was a hard night. Now I feel stronger and steadier. Then I read this, and I cried. I can't describe why (you are indescribeable he says, and I laugh).

Blossoms

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

Li-Young Lee

Such a welter. Such a confusion. That phrase occurs: the revolving door of my heart. I don't know anything, right now. I only live it.

Comments

[greenstorm.livejournal.com]

Thank you. It has.