"My mother laughs At the angels who wait for us to pause During the most ordinary of days And sing our praise to forgetfulness Before they slap our souls with their cold wings." -Sherman Alexie, from "Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World"
I have traveled along the contours/ of leaves that have no name. Here/ where the air is wet and the light is cool,/ I feel what others are thinking and do not speak,/ I know pleasure in the veins of a sugar maple,/ I am living at the edge of a new leaf. - from The Shapes of Leaves by Arthur Sze
The Pear by Jane Hirshfield November. One pear sways on the tree past leaves, past reason. In the nursing home, my friend has fallen. Chased, he said, from the freckled woods by angry Thoreau, Coleridge, and Beaumarchais. Delusion too, it seems, can be well read.