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I was made to be wide-eyed all the days of my life.

Friday, December 3, 2010

December is for Snowflake Poetry




SNOW-FLAKES

Out of the bosom of the Air,
  Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
  Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
    Silent, and soft, and slow
    Descends the snow. 

Even as our cloudy fancies take
  Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
  In the white countenance confession,
    The troubled sky reveals
    The grief it feels. 

This is the poem of the air,
  Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
  Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
    Now whispered and revealed
    To wood and field. 

 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow




Tuesday, November 9, 2010

November Love


"I think true love is never blind
but rather brings an added light
an inner vision quick to find 
the beauties hid from common sight."




Wednesday, November 3, 2010

The Arrow and The Song


November sometimes gets a bad rap. Cold winds wrap around the midwest, forcing the summery windows closed.  November comes causing the farmer to race against the frost for the life of his crop. The college student stumbles around in their top drawer for a pair of warmer socks. November is an honest month. It's usually overcast, rainy, cold. There is nothing to hide here. 

 Children with sleep still in their eyes wait early by the driveway, speaking breath into the air, waiting for the school bus. The trees wave white flags and give up the last of their armory of golden and auburn leaves. The direction of the light changes. Fall has come, and it quite nearly gone. 
 November is my favorite month. 


 And here is a poem that I love today  by my friend Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:




        
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.




I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?





Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.




Honestly, 
L.