I love your shadowy eyes, your olive skin,
Your tender loveliness, but all's dark today.
Not home nor hearth nor even love can win
My thoughts from where the sunlight strokes the sea.
But mother me and love me all the same,
Sweetheart and sister: be that brief delight,
That glimpse of joy, ungrateful as I am,
That autumn gives before the fall of night.
Just let me lay my head upon your knees:
It won't take long; the grave is waiting: death
Allows one torrid summer. Now let's seize
The golden sweetness of its aftermath.
On the Uncountable Nature of Things (meditation) ~Ellen Hinsey
Thus, not the thing held in memory, but this: The fruit tree with its scars, thin torqued branches,
The high burnished sheen of morning light Across the trunk; the knuckle-web of ancient knots
excerpt from ' The Way' ~William Bronk
There is the world, we say, and mean a kind of mechanism, big machine that stands there mornings when we come on. We check the gauge and pull the lever we learned to pull, and wait, and stuff comes out. We put stuff in. And wait. Nights, we go home and rest. After awhile of this, we stop; and, mornings, someone else comes on.