A window of green between some Foxglove flowers
Rocks in my Southeast window...
Tree Island in my church meadow...
An old picture of my cabin style in the CCC era...
Front door window
My shingles (new , that I Love looking at) in the morning light
Windows may be the theme for this past few days for me. Windows that I see through now, windows into my near future. I also think of Wendell Berry's The Window Poems, that I love to read. It's a small volume, find it, you'll like them too probably.
Here's Number 9 from that book:
Windows may be the theme for this past few days for me. Windows that I see through now, windows into my near future. I also think of Wendell Berry's The Window Poems, that I love to read. It's a small volume, find it, you'll like them too probably.
Here's Number 9 from that book:
9.
There is a sort of vertical geography that portions his life.
Outside, the chickadees and titmice
scrounge his sunflower seed.
The cardinals feed like fires on mats of drift lying
on the currents 0f the swollen river.
The air is a bridge and they are free.
He imagines a necessary joy in things that must fly to eat.
He is set apart by the black grid of the window and, below it,
the table of the contents of his mind:notes and remnants,
uncompleted work,unanswered mail,unread books-the subjects of conscience,
his yoke-fellow,
whose whispered accounting has stopped one ear,
leaving him half deaf to the world.
Some pads of paper,eleven pencils,a leaky pen,a jar of ink are his powers. He’ll never fly.
Wendell Berry
