I don’t know about you, but I think we could all use a few more soft cloud-cloths these days. The rough only tumbles the soul and turns the melodies into unharmonious discord. Agree?
And now September burns the careful tree That builds each year the leaf and bark again With solemn care and rounded certainty That nothing lives which seasons do not mend. … The young are never robbed of innocence But given gold of love… Continue Reading “Farewell, Poet, And the Seasons will Mend”
I decided to look up one of my favorite words along with my favorite poet. Here’s what I got: What? Emily Dickinson hasn’t posted anything within 14 days?? And then I thought of how we rekindle our own imaginations – through the eyes of… Continue Reading “Ah, Those Mentors Who Have Not Been Touched by the Absolute”
Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone. They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can’t go on. And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me this song. Oh I hope you run… Continue Reading “Sisters of Mercy”
I measure every Grief I meet (561) Emily Dickinson, 1830 – 1886 I measure every Grief I meet With narrow, probing, eyes – I wonder if It weighs like Mine – Or has an Easier size. I wonder if They bore it long – Or did it… Continue Reading “I measure every Grief I meet”