The pictures are from nine years ago, this time of year, a windy morning somewhere east of Canton, SD, mostly. When, about then, I posted them here, a good friend sent me a Mary Oliver poem which, he said, felt like the pictures. I'm humbled by the association, but proud enough to post the shots--and the poem--once more.
The Messenger
My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflower, there the hummingbird-
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast, there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young and still not half perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,
which is gratitude to be given a mind and a heart
and these body clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.
Mary Oliver
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