Departure from a hinge

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B r i g h t   E y e d  a n d   B u s h y   T a i l e d

Grove Street Cemetery

New Haven, Connecticut

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The Missing All -- prevented Me

From missing minor Things.

If nothing larger than a World's

Departure from a Hinge --

Or Sun's extinction, be observed --

'Twas not so large that I

Coult lift my Forehead from my work

For Curiosity.

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Saturday

These virtues of delight

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G o t   N u t s

Grove Street Cemetery

New Haven, Connecticut

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To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
All pray in their distress;
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is God, our father dear,
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is Man, his child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity a human face,
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.

Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine,
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
There God is dwelling too.

= William Blake =

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Happy Friday

A light that is already leaving

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S k i n   a n d   B o n e s

Green Mount Cemetery

Baltimore, Maryland

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Snow would be the easy
way out -- that softening
sky like a sigh of relief
at finally being allowed
to yield. No dice.
We stack twigs for burning
in glistening patches
but the rain won’t give.

So we wait, breeding
mood, making music
of decline. We sit down
in the smell of the past
and rise in a light
that is already leaving.
We ache in secret,
memorizing

a gloomy line
or two of German.
When spring comes
we promise to act
the fool. Pour,
rain! Sail, wind,
with your cargo of zithers!

= Rita Dove =

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Happy Wednesday

The echo of the future

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C o l o r   C o d e d

Mount Auburn Cemetery

Cambridge, Massachusetts

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In a dream I returned to the river of bees
Five orange trees by the bridge and
Beside two mills my house
Into whose courtyard a blindman followed
The goats and stood singing
Of what was older

Soon it will be fifteen years

He was old he will have fallen into his eyes

I took my eyes
A long way to the calendars
Room after room asking how shall I live

One of the ends is made of streets
One man processions carry through it
Empty bottles their
Image of hope
It was offered to me by name

Once once and once
In the same city I was born
Asking what shall I say

He will have fallen into his mouth
Men think they are better than grass

I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay

He was old he is not real nothing is real
Nor the noise of death drawing water

We are the echo of the future

On the door it says what to do to survive
But we were not born to survive
Only to live

= W.S. Merwin =

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Happy Tuesday

Oh for the veils

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D i s a r m e d

Mount Auburn Cemetery

Cambridge, Massachusetts

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Oh, for the veils of my far away youth,
Shielding my heart from the blaze of the truth,
Why did I stray from their shelter and grow
Into the sadness that follows -- to know!

Impotent atom with desolate gaze
Threading the tumult of hazardous ways --
Oh, for the veils, for the veils of my youth
Veils that hung low o’er the blaze of the truth!

= Georgia Douglas Johnson =

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Happy Monday