• John O'Donohue,  landscape,  poems,  poetry,  seasons,  snow,  winter scenes

    Sharing a poem with you

    In Praise of the Earth

    Let us bless
    The imagination of the Earth,
    That knew early the patience
    To harness the mind of time,
    Waited for the seas to warm,
    Ready to welcome the emergence
    Of things dreaming of voyaging
    Among the stillness of land.

    And how light knew to nurse
    The growth until the face of the Earth
    Brightened beneath a vision of color.

    When the ages of ice came
    And sealed the Earth inside
    An endless coma of cold,
    The heart of the Earth held hope,
    Storing fragments of memory,
    Ready for the return of the sun.

    Let us thank the Earth
    That offers ground for home
    And holds our feet firm
    To walk in space open
    To infinite galaxies.

    Let us salute the silence
    And certainty of mountains:
    Their sublime stillness,
    Their dream-filled hearts.

    The wonder of a garden
    Trusting the first warmth of spring
    Until its black infinity of cells
    Becomes charged with dream;
    Then the silent, slow nurture
    Of the seed’s self, coaxing it
    To trust the act of death.

    The humility of the Earth
    That transfigures all
    That has fallen
    Of outlived growth.

    The kindness of the Earth,
    Opening to receive
    Our worn forms
    Into the final stillness.

    Let us ask forgiveness of the Earth
    For all our sins against her:
    For our violence and poisonings
    Of her beauty.

    Let us remember within us
    The ancient clay,
    Holding the memory of seasons,
    The passion of the wind,
    The fluency of water,
    The warmth of fire,
    The quiver-touch of the sun
    And shadowed sureness of the moon.

    That we may awaken,
    To live to the full
    The dream of the Earth
    Who chose us to emerge
    And incarnate its hidden night
    In mind, spirit, and light.

    from To Bless the Space Between Us
    by John O’Donohue
  • clouds,  landscape,  Mary Oliver,  natural areas,  poems,  trees

    Among the Trees

    From a walk at the Arapaho Bend Nature Area

    when I am among the trees,
    especially the willows and the honey locust,
    equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
    they give off such hints of gladness.
    I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

    I am so distant from the hope of myself,
    in which I have goodness, and discernment,
    and never hurry through the world
    but walk slowly, and bow often.

    Around me the trees stir in their leaves
    and call out, “Stay awhile.”
    The light flows from their branches.

    And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
    “and you too have come
    into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
    with light, and to shine.”

    Mary Oliver, When I Am Among the Trees
  • landscape,  poetic journal,  snow,  trees,  winter scenes,  writing/reading

    Yesterday’s storm has passed

    Snow clinging to branches

    Blue skies and sunshine bring their warmth this morning.
    I see tree branches bending over under the snow’s burden
    I watch as the sun’s warmth weaken the snow’s grip, 
    causing small glistening snowstorms to flutter downward.

    I check on the nesting geese, standing on my toes to look in
    They stretch their necks to check on my presence. All’s well.
    Looking up, the sky seems bluer, no contrails, less pollution.
    I listen to the quiet, the music that soothes this soul.

    I’m filled with gratitude for this wonderful world
    and the gift of being present, a part of all this beauty.

    Yesterday’s storm has passed

  • leaves,  Plants,  poems

    A Quilt for the Ground

    Patterns
    Patterns

    The leaves had a wonderful frolic.
    They danced to the wind’s loud song.
    They whirled, and they floated, and scampered.
    They circled and flew along.

    The moon saw the little leaves dancing.
    Each looked like a small brown bird.
    The man in the moon smiled and listened.
    And this is the song he heard.

    The North Wind is calling, is calling,
    And we must whirl round and round,
    And then, when our dancing is ended,
    We’ll make a warm quilt for the ground.

    Anonymous