there are sorrows
a choir can’t reach when they sing.
Yama (Sanskrit: यम) or Yamarāja (यमराज) is the god of death, belonging to an early stratum of Vedic mythology. In the Vedas, Yama is said to have been the first mortal who died. By virtue of precedence, he became the ruler of the departed ...
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart
may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily
miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less
wondrous than your joy;And you would accept the seasons of your heart,
even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass
over your fields.And you would watch with serenity through the winters
of your grief.
There’s this shape, black as the entrance to a cave.
A longing wells up in its throat
like a blossom
as it breathes slowly.
What does the world
mean to you if you can’t trust it
to go on shining when you’re
not there? and there’s
a tree, long-fallen; once
the bees flew to it, like a procession
of messengers, and filled it
I said to the chickadee, singing his heart out in the
green pine tree:
The shape climbs up out of the curled grass. It
grunts into view. There is no measure
for the confidence at the bottom of its eyes—
there is no telling
the suppleness of its shoulders as it turns
Near the fallen tree
something—a leaf snapped loose
from the branch and fluttering down—tries to pull me
into its trap of attention.
It pulls me
into its trap of attention.
And when I turn again, the bear is gone.
Look, hasn’t my body already felt
like the body of a flower?
Look, I want to love this world
as thought it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get
to be alive
and know it.
Sometimes in late summer I won’t touch anything, not
the flowers, not the blackberries
brimming in the thickets; I won’t drink
from the pond; I won’t name the birds or the trees;
I won’t whisper my own name.
the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,
and didn’t see me—and I thought:
so this is the world.
I’m not in it.
It is beautiful.
what falls away with ease.
Not only the heavy apple,
but also the dried brown strands
of autumn iris from their core.
To let your bodylove this worldthat gave itself to your carein all of its ripeness,with ease,and will take itself from youin equal ripeness and ease,is also harvest.And however sharplyyou are tested --this sorrow, that great love --it too will leave on that clean knife.
I got out of bedon two strong legs.It might have beenotherwise. I atecereal, sweetmilk, ripe, flawlesspeach. It mighthave been otherwise.I took the dog uphillto the birch wood.All morning I didthe work I love.At noon I lay downwith my mate. It mighthave been otherwise.We ate dinner togetherat a table with silvercandlesticks. It mighthave been otherwise.I slept in a bedin a room with paintingson the walls, andplanned another dayjust like this day.But one day, I know,it will be otherwise.
Love is life.All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love.Everything is, everything exists, only because I love.Everything is united by it alone.
Love is God, and to die means that I, a particle of love,shall return to the general and eternal source.–Leo Tolstoy